


Stitching Up the Tears

by Nagaem_C



Series: Needles and Pins [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Embroidery, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anna Clark, recently widowed, has left her life behind in Ohio and flown to London to focus on her art. By chance, she meets Detective Inspector Lestrade—and soon finds herself in over her head, and involved in a case with Sherlock Holmes himself. Can she allow herself to give in to a new love? And will the famous consulting detective listen to her advice regarding matters of the heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

I knew that I was making a big change when I packed up my life and flew off to London alone; I could even admit to myself that I was running away from everything tearing me apart inside, as hard and fast as I could. What I could never have expected was what I ended up running headlong into.

It was time for a reboot; on the losing half of thirty-nine, I felt a strong desire to just throw everything out the window and start over. I'd been happily married for over fifteen years, but a heart attack out of the blue had thrown things into a tailspin a year before; suddenly I was widowed and reeling from the shock of it all. I spent months tying up loose ends and feeling numb and sorry for myself; the few close friends I had around my home in Ohio and spread out across the country all seemed wrapped up in their own lives, and I didn't feel right leaning on anyone much.

I went on in a daze until nine months had passed, and then it was as if something vital just snapped inside me; I knelt weeping in front of David's headstone and confessed to him that I just couldn't come back anymore. I finished tying up David's loose ends, and then just kept on going and tied up my own; I cleaned out and sold our home, and put my most valued possessions into long-term storage; I renewed my passport and gave my friends and family the needed assurances.

Finally, just a few days over a year after my husband's passing, I found myself on a plane, leaving Ohio for an open-ended three month stay in London. I would get far, far away from the memories of my lost love, and keep my mind and hands occupied by studying embroidery at the Royal School of Needlework, a dream I'd harbored for years. 

I'd managed to stretch and plan my finances enough to give me breathing room for whatever exploring I found myself wanting to do, but to start with I just wanted to experience London itself. I couldn't participate in a degree program, so I'd decided to simply register for a smattering of workshop classes to suit my interests, spreading them out over the course of my initial stay.

I'd booked a few weeks to start off at a modestly inexpensive lodging house fairly central to the city, figuring I wouldn't mind the transit time when I made my way out to Hampton Court Palace for the infrequent classes. My accommodations were a bit cramped and the shared hall bathroom was an adjustment to say the least, but I didn't even mind. In contrast to the stifling silence of being alone back home, I found the silence of being alone in unfamiliar territory oddly freeing. I suddenly felt as if there was an incredible new space opening up in my head, to learn new things and get back into serious technical study—whole vistas of knowledge were beckoning to me, exciting me in a way I hadn't felt since my college days.

 

\-----

 

There were hurdles to be expected in trying to learn the area where I was staying, but about four days into my first week, I got myself a bit more lost than usual. I was looking for a certain needlework supply shop but ended up completely confused and frustrated. Stopping into a coffee shop for some caffeine and sustenance seemed like a good idea, before I attempted to reorient myself and set off walking again. I waited in line during the early lunch rush for a large coffee and a scone to go; as I made my way out, someone made brief eye contact with me. He smiled as I was juggling my coffee while trying to get into my purse again for my map. On impulse, I stopped as I passed his table, asking him for directions to the shop. He recognized the name and told me where to go. Relieved, I thanked him before tucking my wrapped scone into my bag and continuing out to the sidewalk. Before I could start off, however, I felt a quick tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me miss, but I think you've been given the wrong directions." I turned and looked up to meet the eyes of a handsome, neatly-attired man with silvering hair. He must have been sitting at a table close to the man I'd spoken with, but I hadn't seen him.

"Sorry?" I smiled uncertainly, moving to the side to get out of the path of the coffee shop entrance.

"Well," he responded, his brown eyes crinkling in a little smile, "somehow I doubt you're looking for a local pub at this time of day. I mean, I see you've got a Royal School tote bag; you're probably asking after the stitchery shop, yeh?"

I was a little startled that this stranger had actually noticed my tote bag, but mostly taken aback at the mention of a pub. He saw my eyes widen and explained, "It's practically the same name, honest mistake really, that bloke probably never had a reason to know about that shop."

"And you do? That's lucky of me, Mister…"

"Lestrade. Greg Lestrade." He passed his coffee over to his left hand and offered his right to shake.

I replied, "Anna Clark," and did the same, and the sensation of our dry, coffee-heated hands together sent a little jolt through me. It actually made it a bit difficult to concentrate as he continued by telling me how to get where I was going, but I shook it off and tried to fix the directions in my head as he spoke.

Finally I thought I had it straight. "Thanks so much, Mr. Lestrade, you've been super helpful!" I turned my head away a bit and scanned my surroundings for the first street I needed.

"Not at all, Ms. Clark. Happy to save you the trouble. And anyway, even if you were looking for a pub, I wouldn't recommend that one," he grinned as he half-turned to try and hail a cab.

I laughed and turned back to him. "Well, I can't say I wouldn't be in the market for a recommendation later, especially after tromping all over the place today! I know practically nothing about this area yet. But if I ask for advice now, I'm certain to forget what you've just told me."

A wider smile spread across his attractive features, and his raised arm faltered a bit and came down as he glanced down at his feet, as if he were coming to a split-second decision. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his lightweight jacket and pulled out a card. "Tell you what. I'm off work at seven, how'd you like a tour guide later? Can't have a nice American girl like you getting lost after dark."

I took the card from him even as a little voice in the back of my head made a tiny, inarticulate squealing noise. "Er…sure why not? I definitely need to get my bearings around here, I'm staying three months."

"Yeah? All right, well, I'll let you get off to the shop. Just text me where you're staying, I'll come by and give you the night tour of London." A cab finally pulled up and he gave a little wave as he opened the door. "Good luck getting your supplies!"

I nodded and waved back a little breathlessly as the cab pulled away. Only then did I really look down and read the business card clutched in my hand:

**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade**  
**Metropolitan Police**  
**New Scotland Yard**

 

\-----

 

That evening, I found myself digging through my suitcases for something to wear, with more than a little nervousness. Here I was, a geeky homebody from Ohio, about to go on a date, with a cop no less, within my first week away from home. Was it really supposed to be a date? Or was Detective Lestrade just being friendly to a clueless tourist? I thought back to the smile in those chocolate-brown eyes and the touch of his hand, and shivered a little. No, it was probably a date. _A date. Oh my god._ I hadn't been on a date in...eighteen years...

I sat heavily on the bed, struck by an onslaught of images—meeting David on the last blind date I'd ever let Kelly set me up on—long nights spent talking on the phone—the first trip we took together, on spring break to South Carolina—slow dancing at the jazz festival after he proposed to me. The images of our long romance were suddenly replaced, as I had come to expect and dread, by the memories of David's death and funeral, and I pressed my head into my hands, bracing for the wave of grief to pass over me. It had been a year now, and the specter of his lifeless green eyes, once so shy and kind, still repeatedly rose up in front of me whenever I let my guard down. _Suck it up, Anna. You can deal with this. This man seems perfectly nice and respectable; there's nothing wrong with allowing yourself out on one date._ I finally stood and settled on simply changing into a slightly nicer top, choosing a dark red that accentuated my long, wavy ash-brown hair and hazel eyes. 

After pronouncing myself ready, I found I still had time to waste. To kill my nerves and center myself, I sat at the tiny desk and squinted in the too-dim light to stitch a few of the curlicue leaves in my current embroidery project. Just as I was thinking how I really needed to splurge on some kind of portable lamp, my phone pinged with a text:

**Out front, when you're ready. -GL**

I dropped my stitching, checked myself one last time in the mirror, and grabbed up my phone and purse, hurrying out of my room and down the three flights of stairs. When I emerged from the hotel I found the detective waiting near the door, leaned up against the building and looking down at the walk, with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his ankles crossed. He looked up and stood straight, quickly and a bit sheepishly; I smiled and greeted him with, "Long afternoon at the office?"

He rolled his eyes a bit as he approached and offered his arm. "You have no idea."

"Well, I'm happy to have you show me around, Mr. Lestrade, but please, don't feel the need to go all-out. You seem a bit tired." _Oh geez, great, tell him he looks tired. What a compliment,_ I silently berated myself as I hesitantly placed my hand on his arm and we began to walk.

"Greg, please. Ha, yeah I'm a bit knackered, but really more wound up than anything. Fancy a bite to eat, then, and I'll tell you about it? I can show you a good place for a curry near here."

 

.

 

At dinner, I started to get over my awkwardness a bit. Greg had a quick laugh and an easy smile, and he really seemed to know how to get a conversation going. I got the distinct sense that he'd been a bit nervous too. The topic of conversation started light, but quickly worked around to the both of us explaining our relationship status. I glossed over the loss of my husband with a minimum of detail, not wanting to wallow in sympathy or tempt my mind to fall back into the distractions of earlier. Greg was similarly vague about his divorce a few years back, though he did explain that his ex-wife was the reason he knew things like where to locate the thread shops. It became clear that neither of us had been getting out and dating in recent memory.

As promised, Greg told me about his afternoon and the murder scene he'd been called to less than a half hour after meeting me. "Sherlock Holmes was there to consult—don't tell me you don't know who he is? God, I wonder that any news from here gets to America at all." He gave me a brief background on the famous consulting detective and explained that after a long period away, he'd come back to London a little over two months before. This was only the third official Scotland Yard scene he'd been asked to since his return, and although it was a simple crime—"well, Sherlock insisted it was simple, anyway,"—they had unearthed the perpetrator and there had been a long foot-chase through warehouses and back alleys. "We eventually got the guy, though. And I definitely won't be needing the gym tomorrow morning," he finished triumphantly.

I smiled around my bite of lamb masala. "Gosh, that's certainly exciting. And it explains your change of clothes nicely. So how the heck am I supposed to top that story with specialty fibers?"

"Hey now, thread is sexy," he deadpanned, then laughed with me as I gestured as if to poke him with my fork.

 

\-----

 

Two days later, I was surprised and gratified to receive a text mid-morning from the Detective Inspector.

 **How's the city treating you? -GL**

**Not bad, I'm doing better at remembering where I'm going at least... *A***

**Good to hear. Seen the British Museum yet? -GL**

**No, haven't got up the nerve to venture that far yet I'm afraid. *A***

**They've got a special textile exhibit going on right now, thought I should let you know, you might like to see it... -GL**

**Oh, that does sound great. I love that kind of thing! Now I definitely have to plan to get myself over there. *A***

**Well, are you free tomorrow? I've got a day off and a hankering for some culture. -GL**

Greg met me outside the cafe where I'd taken to breakfasting each morning, and we ended up spending six hours at the museum, all told. The historic textiles were incredibly interesting, just as he'd promised, and it turned out Greg had surprising enthusiasms for the history of glassware and for Egyptian culture that rivaled my own geeky obsessions. It seemed like we were dancing around things a bit—there was no lack of interesting conversation, but there was an undercurrent of something else there that I noticed most as we moved slowly through the quieter exhibits. A few times I felt as if he'd just barely stopped himself from taking my hand. Once he placed a hand on my shoulder while he pointed out a detail on a blown-glass vase, and for the next five minutes I could have sworn I still felt the imprint of his touch. When he left me in front of my hotel, he was a perfect gentleman, but as he gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek he met my eyes in a way that hinted at much more.

I had a bit of trouble sleeping that night.

 

.

 

It was five more days, with more friendly texts exchanged each day, before Greg's schedule allowed him to make new plans with me. We ate dinner at a romantically-lit bistro; Greg made cracks about the almost comical lack of light. "I'm only fifty-one, I shouldn't need glasses to read the menu!"

Over dessert, I talked about the experience of attending my first class at the Royal School of Needlework that past Sunday, and showed him photos of the little Mountmellick embroidery sampler piece I'd completed there. Afterwards we walked for a while, looking out over the Thames and discussing our favorite movies. About the time we both started enthusing over Kevin Kline's performance in French Kiss, and cracking each other up quoting lines in awful French accents, he took my hand and didn't let go of it till we started back down the stairs to the Tube.

 

\-----

 

The following Wednesday was overcast, a fairly dreary start to September. There had been drizzling rain on and off for most of the morning, leaving everything damp and slick. Since Greg and I had arranged to spend the afternoon together, though, I took extra time with my appearance, choosing a flattering navy skirt and flats along with a bright floral top to chase away the clouds. He always looked so sharp in the buttoned shirts and slacks he habitually wore that I was beginning to feel out of place on the street with him, wearing my tourist-grade jeans and layers. Greg picked me up out front of my hotel again and we chatted about local landmarks as we rode in the cab.

Greg's phone buzzed; he gave me an apologetic look before picking up. "Lestrade…Yeah John, I did need to take that file back in tomorrow, if he's done with it…Now? Uh, I'm with someone, hold on." He pulled the phone against his chest and turned to me. "Anna, I really need to make a quick stop before lunch. All right?"

I nodded and mouthed 'okay'.

"…Sure John, we'll be over in ten, ta." He clicked off, got the cabbie's attention and gave him the new address. "Sorry about that, sweet, it won't be long. I just need to grab some paperwork back from Sherlock."

"Oh wow, you mean I get to actually meet Sherlock Holmes? That'll be nice." Since mentions of Holmes came up so frequently when talking to Greg, I'd taken some time to look the man up online. I'd read a few sensationalized reports on his faked suicide and sudden return, and was curious to see what he was really like.

He grimaced slightly, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Nice? I hope you'll continue to think so after you meet him; he'd better be on his best behaviour. You'll like John Watson, anyway, I can assure you of that."

Soon enough the cab pulled up on Baker Street. One moment I was glancing up at the attractive building as I stepped out of the vehicle—and the next I found myself sprawled out across the rain-slicked sidewalk.

"God, Anna! You okay?" Greg rushed around to my side and began to help me up, just as the door to 221B opened. A compact man with weathered blond hair and a manila folder in hand gaped at us for no more than a split second before hurrying out to assist.

"I'm all right, I just—"

"Jesus, you took a hard one—"

"Oh, and your bag's spilled too, let me—"

"—slippery curb and oh! my ankle!—"

"Stop, don't put your weight on it. Here, lean on me, that's it. Greg, pay the poor cabbie would you?"

"Oh. Right."

 

.

 

A minute later, I found myself being guided into the building, Greg under my left arm carrying my bag, and the blond man supporting most of my weight on my right side. As I was maneuvered to sit gingerly near the bottom of the stairs, introductions were made, though I'd already easily determined I'd been draped all over John Watson. _First impressions count, right? Geez._

Doctor Watson handed Greg the file folder, and squatted down in front of me for a moment before sighing. "Damn, the light in here's far too low. Anna, if we take it slow, do you think you can handle us helping you upstairs? At least that way you can rest somewhere comfortable and have a cup of tea."

I assented, and we proceeded to awkwardly reconfigure ourselves and limp up to the second floor. The door above opened as we turned on the landing and Sherlock Holmes himself appeared, the spitting image of all those dramatic photos I'd seen online, apparently drawn by the abnormal sounds of our halting progress up the stairs. His eyes widened and he stepped back wordlessly to allow us through the doorway; I felt the undeniable sensation that I was being quickly and thoroughly scrutinized. The blush that was already tinting my cheeks grew hotter, but I kept my chin up as I allowed John to lead us in and sit me down at the kitchen table.

"Thank you, I'm sorry about this," I muttered as John situated himself in a chair facing me, and Greg took my things to set them down in the main room.

"No worries. If you don't mind, I'd like to check that ankle now?"

I lifted my right leg, careful of my knee-length skirt, and allowed him to take it. "Of course—ah!—yes, I know you're—"

We were interrupted by an abrupt torrent of words from the previously silent Holmes. "Late thirties; American, East Central region, likely central Ohio or thereabouts; recently divorced and making a clean break with your old life; musical training, double reed persuasion indicated by the slight split scarring under your upper lip and the bulbous bone callous on the first joint of your right thumb, but you haven't played in years. You engage in multiple creative hobbies, needlework being foremost; you have one, no, two younger siblings—brothers—no children of your own but young nieces and nephews; you take pride in your put-together appearance but suffer from a low self-image, judging by the plain way you keep your hair; you've recently started dating again for the first time in nearly two decades, and would like to take the relationship much further but are keeping yourself to an incredibly slow pace due to insecurity on the part of both—"

"Sherlock!!" The scolding outburst came simultaneously from the other two men. John, especially, shot a particularly vicious glare over his shoulder.

For my part, I blinked hard and consciously shut my dropped jaw with a snap.

"Ahem." Sherlock locked eyes with John a moment, before continuing. "…I do apologise. But have I got anything wrong?"

I decided to accept the stilted and obviously grudging apology; from various things I'd read online and inferred from Greg's stories, it was likely the best I'd get. "Widowed, not divorced. Heart attack, a year and three weeks ago. I'm Anna, by the way, nice to meet you." My tone was perhaps just a little bit frosty, though.

"Hm, it's always something. I should have seen that." Sherlock spun on his heel with a vague dismissive gesture and walked away to stand at the living room window.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence before John spoke up, still gently manipulating my ankle. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," I replied with a twist of my lips, "but as Mr. Holmes pointed out, I am moving on with my life." _Don't think about green eyes. Don't think don't think—_ I spent a few moments resolutely staring at the flourished wallpaper in the next room, praying my instinctive guilt at those words wouldn't show through.

"Ah, yes, of course. …Well, you've definitely got a sprain, not too severe though so I won't ask you to visit the hospital. I've got some elastic bandages, I'll wrap it up for you. Just stay put a moment. While I'm at it, I can do something about the scrapes on your knee and shin." John stood, straightening his maroon jumper, and gave me an understanding little smile before going off to get the supplies.

Once we were alone in the kitchen, Greg caught my eye again from where he was seated opposite me. I could only really see his head over top of the incredible arrangement of laboratory equipment and books piled on the back half of the table. "Er…about what Sherlock said there…" he murmured, rubbing his hand over his chin self-consciously.

"Which part, the divorce part or the other?"

"Um, the other."

I cleared my throat to buy myself time. "Well, yes, I probably should have said something earlier. I must confess to you, I was an oboist for years—is that a problem?"

That brought a startled bark of a laugh from Greg, defusing the moment just as John came back into the kitchen with his medical kit. I glanced out to the main room, grinning, just in time to see Sherlock quirk one side of his mouth up in a quick twitch of a smile, before turning back to the window in thought.

 

.

 

Since I'd been injured, our quick stop at Baker Street before lunching out ended up becoming a long visit over tea and biscuits, plus some delicious pound cake their landlady had brought up the day before. I was given a painkiller and moved to the sofa with an ice pack for my ankle, and Greg sat at the other end. I could wriggle my toes and practically touch his hip…but I didn't dare. Conversation moved on to a discussion of a few of their recent cases, which finally managed to draw Sherlock out of his private thoughts and into the chat. He took the second armchair across from John and nibbled at a biscuit as he declaimed his brilliant deductions for the admiration of his newest audience member. I was less involved in the talk at that point, but I didn't mind; it was so nice to be included in a room full of friendly people that I eventually just kind of zoned out and let the words flow around me.

"Anna? All right there?" John broke me out of a reverie.

I belatedly realized I'd probably spent a few minutes just staring at the tanned curve of Greg's jaw as he spoke. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," I replied quickly, dragging my gaze away. "Sorry, how strong was that pill you gave me?"

"I probably should have offered you more than tea and sweets for lunch with that, eh?" John shook his head, obviously amused. "I hadn't got out to the shops before our last case the other day, it's on me that we've got nothing in. There's the cafe downstairs though, I can pop down."

Greg stood just as John made to do the same. "No, John, I promised Anna a meal and I'll go down and get it. Don't trouble yourself." He turned to me and smiled. "What'll it be? They've got a great roast beef."

"Mm, sounds good. And chips?"

Greg nodded and made his way out, my eyes following after him until Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly. I snapped back to attention.

"You should know, it's reciprocated," he murmured in his smooth baritone. He and John exchanged a weighted glance, the meaning of which was beyond my slightly addled brain.

"Sorry?" I shifted a bit on the sofa, trying to un-slump myself.

"Lestrade. He desires more from your relationship as well."

"Uh. Um…" I didn't recall either of us even confirming out loud that we were dating. Had I missed something?

"The signs are clear; his increased respiration rate when you speak, dilated pupils, lack of complete focus on John's conversation, repeated glances your way. He fidgeted with a napkin in his right hand for twenty-three minutes of the last thirty. Then there's the way he ran his hand through his hair before he went downstairs. He is obviously trying to steel himself to make the 'next move' with you."

John made an attempt to smooth the edges of my fascinated mortification. "You know, you're the first woman Greg's introduced to me in nearly four years. He never even mentioned having a second date with anyone in all that time."

"Really?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I'm actually surprised, I wouldn't have expected Lestrade's confidence—"

"Yeah, I expect it's news to you, Sherlock," John sighed, gritting his teeth and setting his shoulders. "Certain events can take more of a toll than you think. Trust me, he and I spent a lot of time together those three years. I'd know."

I found that my jaw was hanging slightly open again. It felt as if I were suddenly watching a subtle tennis match, and I was pretty sure the two men were no longer really talking about anything to do with me at all. And then they weren't even talking, or rather they were just talking with their eyes; another one of those long, heavy moments passed, and then Sherlock let out a tiny huff of breath and cast his gaze downward into his tea.

"So…" I blurted, attempting to break the tension that had suddenly filled the room, "um, he'd mentioned me to you already then?"

John turned back to me, as if suddenly remembering my presence, and the lines on his forehead smoothed a bit. "I hadn't caught your name yet, he was being a bit coy. But he told me at the pub Saturday week before last that he'd met someone. Well, more like he admitted it after I called him on grinning like a fool while the other team scored."

 _Right after we'd been at the museum._ I felt an unwanted blush rising again, and fought hard to stop it as we heard Greg's footsteps coming back up the stairs. I seemed to be doing an awful lot of blushing that day.

 

\-----

 

Leaving Baker Street was eventually inevitable, and after my stomach was full of real food I felt capable of doing so. Greg tucked his manila file under his arm, grabbed my bag and hovered protectively behind me as I used the handrail to lever myself down the stairs. Once we were out on the street, though, he studied me with a small frown on his face.

"You're not staying there tonight," he stated.

"Sorry, am I still high, Greg? That sentence didn't make sense."

"That rooming house of yours. You're on the third floor, yeah? No way that's an option for you, not for the next four or five days at any rate." A cab pulled up and he moved to help me into it.

"I only had a week left on the time I'd booked there, anyway," I replied once he'd gotten in and directed the driver. "I'm sure I could cancel the last week and find somewhere better to go on with."

"That's fine, Anna, but what about tonight? I don't want you to rush about trying to book a new room before supper. It's already gone four. Let me help you out?" His brows drew together and he gave me what could only be described as an earnest puppy-dog look.

I smiled at him and reached over to pat his knee. "Sure."

 

.

 

I gave Greg my key when we arrived at the hotel, and he jogged upstairs to get my things. While I waited for the desk clerk to get off the phone, I racked my brains to remember how I'd left my room; I sincerely hoped there weren't underthings lying around. I was just finishing my business with the clerk when my phone rang.

"All right then," Greg's gravelly voice purred in my ear, "I think I've found everything there is to get together in here. Checked the drawers, found your electronics chargers, zipped up your toiletry case, got the shoes under the bed. How do you want your art handled?"

 _God, he sounds even sexier over a phone speaker. How is that even possible?_ "There's a pink pillowcase with a strap, did you find that?" At his affirmative I continued, "Just slide the whole frame into that. Watch out for the needle hanging off, though. Any loose threads on the desk can just go in that little plastic baggie." I listened to him a few moments more before he rang off to bring my bags down.

The whole ride out to Greg's flat, I fought an attack of nerves that was tying my stomach in knots. Was I really ready for this? Could I really be moving on this easily? Detective Inspector Lestrade was intelligent, thoughtful, funny, strong, kind, loyal, and sexy. Damn sexy. What the hell was he doing taking out a girl like me, anyway? I heard Sherlock's voice echoing in my head: _Low self-image._ Then I thought about the long walk the week before, and Greg gently holding my hand as we laughed together about nothing. I glanced over to realize that he seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts, too. Sherlock spoke in my head again. _Insecurity, on both parts._ Suddenly I could see that Greg was just as nervous as me, and it was clear as day that I needn't worry about him taking advantage.

 

.

 

"So, here we are. Never been happier to live on the ground floor," Greg panted, as we finally managed to get both me and my possessions up the walk and in the door. I looked around as he ushered me into his small flat, and saw an interesting mix of furnishings: a couple battered but comfortable-looking upholstered pieces, a plain sofa and end tables that looked straight off an IKEA catalog page, and two obvious heirlooms–a large carved curio bookcase to the side of the sofa, and a heavy mahogany table that dominated the small dining area. It was mismatched but cozy, and cleaner on the whole than I'd generally expected a bachelor's apartment to be. "Loo's down the hall to the left, the room on the right I'm using for storage, bedroom's at the back—it's a fold-out sofa out here…" He kept talking in a steady stream, detailing the various quirks of the showerhead and sticking door handles as he disappeared into the galley kitchen, and I heard the sounds of rummaging in cabinets.

"I'm sure it's fine," I sighed with a smile, carefully lowering myself into the nearest threadbare recliner. I kicked the footrest up, pulled my purse into my lap and checked my hair briefly in my pocket mirror. _Plain, huh? Maybe I should consider layers or something._ As I put the mirror away my phone buzzed against it.

**Pleasure meeting you today. Do be careful of the ankle, keep icing it thru tomorrow if you can. Don't hesitate to let me know if you're having any trouble. -JW**

**Yes, Doctor. :) Did I really give you my number while I was hopped up on medication? *A***

**Not exactly, Sherlock dictated the number and instructed me to text you. I imagine he got hold of Greg's phone today... -JW**

**You don't seem surprised about that, LOL. What am I saying, I'm already not surprised either. :) Give him my regards. *A***

"What's so funny?" Greg asked, setting a cup of tea on the table by my elbow, and a towel-wrapped bag of ice by my foot.

I flashed my phone towards him before tucking it back into my bag, still chuckling. "Just my new friends checking up on me. And apparently you need to start watching your pockets better."

The look on his face, when he realized what I was getting at, was practically priceless.

 

.

 

After the events of the day I was a little wrung out, and not really feeling like I could still be in "on a date" mode much longer. I knew Greg could sense my mood, but I was stuck in his home now, so I sipped slowly at my tea and waited to see what he would do. With a courteous nod my way, he put his television onto the news at low volume and started to settle in on the sofa with a newspaper and his own tea—obviously part of his normal home routine. Only a couple seconds later, though, he snapped the paper down with an "Oh!" and hopped up again. Startled and bemused, I watched him stride down the hallway and vanish into his storage room. He was gone so quickly I didn't even think to ask what he was up to; after a few minutes punctuated by various thumps and muffled grunts he emerged, his dress shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, blowing dust off of a goose-necked floor lamp.

"Knew I still had this around somewhere. I hope the bulb's still good." He came around behind my chair and I set down my cup, craning my neck to watch him plugging it in.

"Wow, you really do know how to treat a girl right!" I said, only half-teasing, when the bright work lamp lit up over my shoulder.

Greg grinned up at me saucily from his crouched position by the outlet, then stood to adjust the lamp's angle a bit. "I told you I've had experience with creative types. You looked like you needed a break." He wiped his dusty hands on his undershirt. "If you hadn't noticed, I put your work and your kit bag down here when we came in, you should be able to reach without too much trouble. Anything else you need, you'll let me know, yeah?"

"No, this is perfect, just perfect. So much better than that hotel room already. I wasn't even going to ask, Greg, but I'm so glad you don't mind; it's such a habit to stitch in the evening I don't know what to do with myself otherwise," I enthused, already reaching to pull out my embroidery frame as he sat back down with his paper.

 

.

 

We spent the next hour pleasantly in relative quiet, and it seemed to have a recharging effect on us both, but once the news program was over I set my project aside and made to get up. Greg was on his feet in an instant and helping me. "Ugh, this is gonna get tiresome really fast, isn't it," I grumbled, when I'd finished using the restroom and found him waiting just on the other side of the door to help me again. "I can't believe I need help down the hall just to use the toilet. Pathetic."

Greg gave me a sly smile, moving smoothly from his light supporting grip on my elbow to an arm cradling around my waist, and leaned close to my ear from behind. "We can make the best of it." Feeling the shudder that ran through me at his touch, he chuckled. "I'll run out and pick you up a crutch or something tomorrow morning, I should have made a stop for one before we got here."

I turned my head and found myself eye-to-eye with the handsome Detective Inspector. We weren't making any progress back up the hallway. My breath caught in my throat; fascinated, I watched his dark eyelashes flutter downwards as he dropped his gaze to my lips. _Oh, this is really happening,_ was my only coherent thought before the kiss began…and it was a few more minutes before I had any other thoughts at all.

I'm certain neither of us expected things to escalate so quickly; it had certainly seemed as if Greg wanted to take things nice and slow, as did I, but once our lips met it was like breaking open a dam. When I lost my balance and squeaked into Greg's lips at the pain in my ankle, he immediately swooped an arm under my legs, and then he was carrying me. There was a moment's hesitation as he tried to decide which direction to move; he pulled his head back from the kiss to look at me in sudden uncertainty. I met his dark eyes and slowly, deliberately tilted my head to the left. _Bedroom._ His answering smile lit up his whole face.

 

\-----

 

I wasn't sure what was going on when I woke groggily to a pounding noise. The room was dark, and I struggled to focus on the digital clock by the bed. _Greg's bed. Greg._ I raised my head to find his silhouette already up and moving about, pulling on pyjama pants and a T-shirt. "Stay here, love, I'll take care of it. Go back to sleep." I mumbled "okay" in response, and finally deciphered the time just as Greg opened and closed the door, letting a brief shaft of light into the room. Past eleven thirty; we'd never eaten dinner, or even turned out the lights in the rest of the flat. The television was still on. And all of my bags were still sitting by the dining room wall. I yawned and sat up, pulling the bedsheet around my torso as I perked up to hear what the fuss was about. Surely he couldn't expect me to actually fall back asleep now.

"All right, all right!" I heard Greg snap as he rattled the deadbolt and privacy chain on his door. _Wow, sound really carries in here, I hope we weren't too loud._ "Sherlock? What the hell do you want?"

"I'm going MAD, Lestrade!" The deep voice was agitated and its tone kept changing as I listened: pacing back and forth, rather furiously. "He makes NO sense. It's _okay_ , it's all _okay_ , everything is normal and then it ISN'T. Why must he constantly play these games!?"

"Oi, calm down. …Calm down! Sherlock, what, you two had a row again?"

"Obviously!" There was a noise like a mug being knocked off a counter, and then a deep sigh which I could tell was Greg's.

"Look, you can tell me the details if you want. But I'm gonna go out on a limb and…deduce…this is about you being gone."

"I explained everything, I apologised, he forgave me. John said he forgave me! Why can't we just move on from this inane _repetition?_ " Sherlock spat the word as if it were a cursed thing.

Next I heard the thump of the fridge door, and the distinctive pop and tinkle of a bottle cap being opened. "Because normal people, and yes, even John, can't just set aside years of grief like last week's takeaway. You were dead, Sherlock, that was reality to us; it's tough to put those memories in boxes."

There was an odd, strangled noise from the other man. "Then he lied, when he told me that I was forgiven?"

"He has forgiven you…Except for the times he hasn't."

"That makes no SENSE, Lestrade!"

I was starting to wonder if Greg was purposefully not asking Sherlock to hush, whether or not there were upstairs neighbors to offend. Even hidden in the dark bedroom, I was feeling pretty exposed in my situation, and I was sure that at any moment the genius would actually look practically anywhere around himself.

"I fail to see how such a mental dichotomy is feasible," Sherlock continued, picking up steam again. "It's completely illogical! I've made numerous adjustments to my behaviour patterns to John's benefit, I've been unfailingly civil to Harriet, I've bent over backwards to make things right! And everything was fine, for two whole weeks this time, until today after you brought your new friend…" He trailed off into a long moment of dead silence. _Well, there it is,_ I thought, and my cheeks heated just imagining the look that might be on Sherlock's face. And the look that might be on Greg's.

"Ah." This time Sherlock spoke much more quietly.

"Yes."

"…Well then."

"Yes. —No, don't say it. Just stop there."

Another moment of silence, and then, mildly, "It's good that you don't have stairs."

I shook my head in disbelief. Was this Sherlock's version of concern for my health, or his version of "good going, bro"?

"Aaaand that's all for tonight. Thanks for stopping by Sherlock, love the company, be sure and come again sometime."

"Wait. …John made it clear to me this afternoon that I upset you, too, more than I had previously realised." My eyes prickled a bit as I remembered John's words. "I want to...apologise...for the effects my extended absence may have had. Truly, Lestrade."

"I…" There was a heavy pause, then the clink of Greg's bottle into the trashcan. "That means a lot to me. Thank you." His voice sounded a little raspy. "How about we talk about it more another time? Go home. John won't appreciate it if you stay away all night."

"All right. Good night, Lestrade, …Anna." I heard the front door close with a soft click.

 

.

 

There were a few minutes of quiet after that. Left alone in the bedroom, I sat with my knees hugged to my chest, mulling over what I'd listened to. Sherlock's careful acknowledgement of me had made it clear he knew I'd heard every word. And although it probably wasn't any of my business, and I only knew the bare bones of the story, I found my heart hurting for Greg and for these people I'd just met. Eventually the line of light under the bedroom door disappeared, and moments later Greg stepped in quietly, bringing my larger suitcase along with him. He remained silent, moving slowly, until he sat down on the bed next to me and sighed. "I'm sorry about all that."

"Don't be," I murmured; "it sounds like he needed your perspective. I'm sorry if my being here made it awkward, I couldn't help hearing."

"Of course you couldn't. Not when Sherlock's in a strop."

"Happens often, then?"

"Not with me for a long time, but yeah, it used to." Greg lay back on the bed, hands laced behind his head, and I followed, resting my head on his chest. His T-shirt was soft under my cheek. "There was a time…before John came along…"

"Mm."

"You're lucky, meeting him now. When I first met Sherlock he was a pure terror. Even as a strung-out junkie living on the street, he could make any one of the female sergeants cry in under thirty seconds of deducing their personal lives." He gave a chuckle I felt more than I heard. "God, I can't believe that's ten years gone now. Even five after that, cleaned up and respectable, until John came into the picture you could hardly trust him to treat other people like human beings."

"So, maybe it's not my place to ask, but are he and John…?" I couldn't help being curious.

"Ah, no? I don't think so. It's not like that, or at least they've never let on to me, and I've been pretty close with them both. The two of them, it's like…it's somehow more than that, if that makes sense at all."

"But John's having trouble with things right now." I wasn't really trying to pry, but I felt like Greg needed to let out some of what was bothering him.

"Well, yeah—you heard! God, I don't know how many nights those first few months I sat by watching him drink himself stupid, how many days Mrs. H and me fought to get him just to eat something. And then later on when he'd got himself back together and started working again, we'd get together for a pint and then some little thing would remind us of Sherlock, and he'd just look right through me—“ Greg choked off his words and turned his face to the wall. "Sorry, god, I'm sorry," he ground out.

"Hey." I raised up on one elbow and gently turned him back toward me with two fingers at his jaw. "No apology. Not here. Look at where I am with you." I pressed a little kiss where my fingers had been.

Greg's hands came away from under his head and he tightened his arms around me. "Oh, Anna…"

 

\-----

 

An alarm went off on Greg's nightstand at five-thirty the next morning, and he had to lean over top of me to reach the clock. _Either I slept on his side, or the entire center of the bed is his side,_ I thought muzzily as he stood and started moving around the room. He slipped out and I heard his shower start soon after; I used the time dreamily recalling the wonderful things we'd gotten up to the night before. Before long Greg came back in and flipped on a small lamp, already wearing pressed trousers and rubbing a towel over his head. When he turned to see my eyes following the small beads of moisture left on his strong shoulders, he smiled and stepped over to plant a quick kiss on my forehead.

"I'm sorry, sweet, I really need to get in the office this morning," he murmured. "But first I'm going to pop into the chemist's at the corner and get you those crutches I promised, and a new bag of ice. My kitchen's fairly well stocked, d'you think you'll be okay while I'm at work?"

I grinned lazily and rolled my neck on my shoulders as I sat up. "I'm only eleven years younger than you, I think I can manage."

"Oh, is that all?" Greg tossed his towel playfully at me, and opened his closet to get out a dress shirt.

"Actually, it's twelve, just for the next four weeks or so. You did say your birthday was in June, right?"

"I can, in fact, confirm you're not yet losing your memory to old age," he joked, ducking as I lobbed his towel back at him.

 

.

 

While Greg was off at work, I got acclimated to using my crutches to get around, taking some time to familiarize myself with the flat. I found Greg's laptop prominently set out for me on the coffee table, and when I sat down with toast, tea and a fresh ice pack and opened it up, I found a sticky note on the keyboard: "Password '416_Rigby'. Back by 7 with takeaway. Text me if you need anything. xx Greg." _Is there anything this man doesn't think of?_ I wondered. With a tiny sigh, I opened a browser and began scanning through local accommodations listings. It wouldn't do to outstay my welcome.

I passed a large part of the morning working on my embroidery, and was actually able to finish the piece. _Well, there's Mom's Christmas gift done,_ I thought as I unfastened the linen and pulled the delicate floral spray from my frame. I mulled over what to do next, not having another gift waiting to be started, and not having the materials yet to frame up for my next two-day workshop project. I knew that project could be an original design rather than one of the drawings provided, so I decided to consider my options.

After lunch, I was still searching for inspiration, so I hobbled to Greg's curio cabinet and took a closer look at its contents. The various objects of beauty and sentimental value—small glass bowls and paperweights, a model of the Sphinx, and one sad, lopsided handmade clay vessel—shared shelves with a wide-ranging amalgam of books, mixed together in no easily discernible order. I skimmed over the titles, noting among them dog-eared detective novels, old police procedural manuals, biographies on Joe Strummer and George VI, and some beautiful photo books on the landmarks of London, Victorian art glass, and Egyptian hieroglyphics and cultural symbolism. Intrigued, I flipped open the last and paged through it while ideas percolated through my mind. I had my sketchbook and the Egyptian photo book open at the dining table, and was sketching intently with my icing foot propped up on a second chair, when Greg's key rattled in the lock.

 

.

 

Greg had chosen Thai for our dinner; we chatted amiably over our noodle soup and shared a few favorite dishes. When I choked up on a spicy chili, we started into a teasing academic debate over which beverage, beer or milk, reduced the burn better; Greg brought over his laptop to search out which one of us was right. Opening it up, he paused and sucked his teeth, seeing the tab I'd neglected to close. "So, hotels already, well all right," he mused, the issue of capsaicin immediately forgotten.

"Well, yeah, I mean I can't get around well just yet, but it'll be better soon…" I studied Greg's face cautiously. "I know you don't want me taking over your apartment for too long."

"You know? Pretty impressed, I didn't even know that. Regular mind reader, you." He enunciated his words clearly, and fixed his eyes on the table. I could tell he was doing his best not to show his hurt feelings.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to presume, it's just—you live alone, you're used to having your own space—"

"Hey, it's okay. I get it, yeh? I've been coming on too strong. I know I'm no great catch," he broke in, standing abruptly and clearing his dishes off the table without looking up.

I couldn't gather my own dishes, but I got up onto my crutches as quickly as I could to follow him into the kitchen. "No great catch? Are you looking at the same man I'm looking at?"

"Always been the one to take such good care of people, so good I cared them all right into running away. Shouldn't have expected you'd be any exception." Greg stood at the sink, arms braced against the counter edge, and didn't turn his head as I limped in behind him.

"Look, maybe this is all just going too fast, okay? I can hardly run away from something I've barely run into." I knew my words were coming out all wrong, but the tension apparent in Greg's stance was bleeding over into me. "What is it you want from me?"

"God, I don't know!" Greg snapped, then quickly moderated his tone as he turned to finally face me. "I—don't know. I didn't mean for last night to happen the way it did. I just liked having you around I guess..." His eyes slid away again, and he heaved an upset sigh as he stepped out of the kitchen around me.

Frustrated, I maneuvered myself back in the other direction and returned to the table, to find him tapping at the laptop.

"Here," Greg pointed at his screen, "this is a place I planned to suggest before—er, before. It's a smaller place than what you searched out today, but it's only two blocks down from here and right near the Tube. I know the owner; he's usually got a few ground floor rooms available. All right?" He was back to avoiding my gaze; I didn't want to think about how much that actually hurt.

"All right," I agreed quietly. "But it's past nine now."

Greg's shoulders slumped a bit, defeated. "Yeah." There was a long, sad pause that neither of us knew how to fill, and then Greg got up to fold out the sofa.

We prepared for bed in near silence, though it was fairly companionable. Even upset, I couldn't quite dispel the feeling of easy comfort at being near Greg, and I got the feeling that he'd really meant what he said about not meaning to move so quickly. _We've both been so alone,_ I mused, studying him out of the corner of my eye. _We just got caught up in feeling something._ When Greg finished tucking fresh sheets into the mattress, he straightened and tugged the hem of his T-shirt down self-consciously. His face moved through three or four conflicting expressions, and his jaw worked but he couldn't find what he wanted to say; in the end he simply bent and kissed me tenderly on the cheek. "Goodnight."

 

.

 

In my dream, I sat on a steep hillside watching a beautiful sunset. I looked down to see David's familiar hand in mine, his wedding band catching the orange light. I turned to speak to him, but found his green eyes gone cold and distant; when he spoke, it was clinical and clipped in a way I'd only heard once when I brought something in to his work at the pharmacy. "You're leaving me, Annie. Why didn't you stay?"

"No, honey, you don't understand, I—"

"You didn't love me enough, Annie, and now…I'm dead…" His disapproving face was transparent and fading right in front of me. My hand was empty and cold.

 

.

 

"No, noooo!!" I wrenched myself awake and jerked upright, shaking. The sheets were tangled around me tightly and I found myself keening, little panicked noises escaping me with each breath as I struggled to free myself. Seconds later, the mattress dipped behind my back and strong arms came around me.

"Anna, Anna, hey, it's all right, hey. You're okay. Anna," Greg whispered a litany as he rocked me, using one arm to gently pull the sheets from their strangling hold.

I twisted around and clutched at him blindly. "Oh god, David…It was David…"

Greg continued holding me tightly as I took a few long, shuddering breaths, my face pressed into his shoulder. "It's all right now. Just a nightmare. It's all right."

"It's not though!" I gasped, on a choked sob, still blending the dream with reality in my mind. "He's gone and he won't forgive me…he won't…"

"Forgive you? Oh, sweetheart." Greg pulled back from me slightly, gently brushing his thumb back and forth across my cheek to wipe away a tear. "Hey, ssh. Hey. Answer this: did your David ever want you to be unhappy? In reality, mind. Forget about the nightmare. D'you think he's really up there somewhere, looking down and just hoping you'll stay alone and sad your whole life now?"

"N-no I guess not, but—"

"But nothing. That's not how marriage works. A good one anyway. And I s'pose I can't call myself an expert on good marriage if Tracy's anything to go by, but the way I've always figured it, it's about caring for someone's happiness. Along with and in spite of your own."

I laid my hand over his against my face, searching for his eyes in the shadows. "I'm not sorry about last night, Greg. I can't be. To be honest…part of me does want to run, a little bit. But that's not you," I rushed on, "not anything you've done or failed to do. Please believe me."

"I believe you," Greg murmured, pulling my head back to his shoulder and stroking my hair.

"I don't even really want to go," I whispered after a few quiet moments.

"Look—there's no pressure here. I swear, Anna, I don't want to rush you, and we can absolutely pull back a bit. But you could still stay. I mean, I'd like it. For whatever time we have, if you really want to keep this going."

"It scares me. But I don't want to stop."

"It scares me too, love, and I wish you wouldn't."

 

-x-x-x-


	2. Part 2

**Darling, I hate to abandon you but a kidnapping case has come up. I've got to stay on at work, this could run pretty late. -GL**

**Good luck with it, don't worry about me! I have stuff I can do. xxx *A***

**Thanks for understanding, I'll keep you posted. Oh and John says to tell you hi. -GL**

**I'd say to tell him he could easily text me himself, but if he's with you right now I understand you're all busy. Give my best wishes to him, and Sherlock. *A***

I smiled at my phone, then looked back out the train window. The scenery on the thirty-five minute ride between Hampton Court Palace and the Waterloo station was varied and interesting, and this was only the second day I'd taken the trip out there and back for classes. So much had happened since my first workshop that it felt like far more than the two weeks it had actually been. _I'm glad to be done with those crutches,_ I thought, idly wondering whether, without my sprained ankle, I would have gotten so involved with Greg Lestrade this quickly. We'd basically been cohabiting for the last seven days, half of which I'd been fairly reliant on him for a lot of things. All things considered, our relationship was sort of an odd mix at the moment: I was sleeping on his guest bed, though we seemed to spend more and more of our time kissing, and when Greg was home in the evenings we usually treated each other a bit like we were out on a date. At the same time, we'd fallen into an easy domestic routine for convenience's sake, which stemmed logically from sharing the small flat, and afforded me conveniences I wouldn't have at a hotel. If I hadn't injured myself on Baker Street, we would probably only just have gone on our fourth date by this point; as it stood, I now knew the contents of his pantry, the way he took his coffee, and which dirty clothes of his I planned to put in the wash tonight with mine. _Never thought I'd be washing any man's underwear again after David's._ A sudden wave of melancholy washed over me at the thought, and the feeling stuck with me on the entire walk from the train, to the Tube, in and out of the grocery, and through the whole walk back to Greg's.

 

.

 

I needed to cheer myself up and put things in perspective, and the flat was far too empty and quiet. So I put my music player on random shuffle, put on my headphones with the volume fairly high, and worked off some steam dancing while I did my laundry and fixed myself dinner. It was working to improve my mood, so I left my music on through three and a half hours of uninterrupted progress on my workshop piece. When I finally noticed the time and got ready for bed, I realized I'd missed several messages over the course of the night:

**Still working. Hoping for a breakthrough soon. -GL**

**Found something, not sure the significance. Sherlock's down in the lab now. I have to go interview the parents again. -GL**

**Really wishing I could be home now. Kind of wish this little girl could be home more. Miss you though. -GL**

**Catching a catnap at my desk in a minute. John's promised to wake me if anything happens. Sorry about tonight. You all right? -GL**

I checked the time and saw that I'd missed the last text by only fifteen minutes, so I composed a message to Doctor Watson instead:  
**Hi John, please tell Greg when he wakes I'm sorry I missed his texts. Everything's fine here, didn't mean to worry him. I hope the child will be OK. *A***

I got a reply to that nearly immediately.

**Will do. Thanks for checking in. It's been more complicated than expected over here, but I'm certain we'll have it in hand soon. -JW**

 

.

 

Greg still hadn't arrived back at the flat by the time I had to get back to the train station the next morning. A new text message came to me at nearly ten, just as I swiped my security badge for entrance back into the Royal School's area of the Palace.

**Trailed the guy to Norwich, we'll be driving up; eta 12:30. Hoping they don't hassle us much on allowing Sherlock's involvement outside my jurisdiction. -GL**

This time I was able to respond right away, before switching my phone to silent.  
**Good hunting, then, and be careful. I'm just going into class now, in till 4 PM. xx *A***

The hours of work I'd been able to put in without distractions proved to be very advantageous: Or Nué is a time-consuming technique, and after a long and determined day, I was one of only two students able to put the finishing touches on my credit-card-sized piece by the end of our workshop. The instructor brought us both up front and pointed out fine aspects of our work in front of the class. Afterwards, I walked back up the promenade approaching the Hampton Court Bridge, and paused at the lovely sight of a pair of swans gliding serenely together on the Thames. I was riding high on the pleasure of my accomplishment; the sun shone brightly in a clear sky, the palace gleamed behind me, and I stopped to savor the early autumn air before continuing on toward the train station across the bridge. _This is a perfect moment. I don't think I could be any happier right now,_ I exulted as I walked.

**Case is done! Jade's returned safely to mum & dad, perp in custody. We're just wrapping up. Join us for Chinese, 221B, 5:30? Dying to see you. -GL**

I smiled even wider as my thought was proven wrong.

 

\-----

 

When I arrived at 221B Baker Street, stepping very carefully from the cab, I was greeted at the street door by an energetic and kindly older woman.

"Oh, you must be Gregory's new young lady! Aren't you just a peach, look at you! I'm Martha Hudson, the landlady, it's lovely to meet you, dear," she cooed as she ushered me inside.

"Anna Clark, ma'am, it's good to meet you too. I must tell you, you make a delicious pound cake, my grandmother would have begged you for your recipe."

"That's so sweet of you to say, Anna dear!" At the sound of hearty laughter from upstairs, she rolled her eyes fondly upward and patted my arm. "Ooh, those boys! You should go on up, I daresay your special someone's waiting to say hello. We'll have to chat again sometime."

Approaching the upper floor, I found the door standing open and walked in to find all three men seated around the kitchen table, laughing raucously.

"...So then I told him we still needed him to process the chicken suit as evidence, after all that," Greg wheezed.

"And he BELIEVED you?? Priceless!" exclaimed John, wiping an eye.

"Of _course_ he believed him, John, this is after all Anderson we're talking about," Sherlock crowed from the far end of the table. "Unutterably thick!" He reached across to snatch up a dumpling, gesturing as he did so to the fourth seat at the table, which had miraculously been mostly cleared of scientific debris. "Good evening Anna, do join us..."

Greg whirled around in his seat as I stepped around the table behind him. "Anna! How was your class, love?" Grinning, he caught up my hand and planted an exuberant kiss on it as I sat down.

"Great actually, it was a wonderful workshop! I learned a lot, and my piece turned out beautifully." I slid my eyes from Greg's beatific face, to the beer on the table, and over to John, raising my eyebrow and laughing. "So how many has he had?"

John gestured grandly with his own bottle. "I swear, madam, we're both only on our second! But we haven't slept either, so."

Greg snorted. "Hah! _You_ could have napped, you know. You weren't the one who had to drive us two and a half bloody hours each way!"

"I could have napped, you say? And if I had, who would have kept Sherlock in check? There were at least a few times I was sure you were considering something violent!"

"Ah, point taken, John. I do seem to recall my last road adventure alone with our boy here is what first started me going grey. Cheers to you." Greg gave John a nod and mocking salute.

For his part, Sherlock listened to the teasing without protest. Turning to me as I helped myself to a bit of the salt-and-pepper chicken, he murmured, "I've been trapped in a vehicle with these two gentlemen the better part of the day, and in contrast to the sharpening effect it has on my faculties, sleep deprivation has served only to exacerbate their more base qualities. _Please_ tell me you have _something_ of intellectual substance to add to the conversation, I think I might tear my hair out otherwise."

Flattered by the sudden attention, I shrugged a bit. "Are you familiar with the historical technique of Or Nué embroidery? That's been fascinating to me this weekend." I didn't expect much interest from Holmes on the subject, as long years' experience of obsessing over embroidery had taught me that most people don't appreciate the details much. It was the area in which I felt I could wax the most pedantic, though, at that moment, and Sherlock seemed to be begging for pedantry.

On any other evening, Sherlock might have shown no interest whatsoever in the topic. Tonight, however, the gregarious high from solving his case combined with his increasing desire to change the conversational tone, which seemed to work in my favor. He allowed me to give him a basic history on the technique, and show him a few examples of its use in ecclesiastical work on my cameraphone gallery. By the time I started explaining how the delicate pairs of real metal passing thread were couched over the entire work by fine silk threads, and how the color and density of those miniscule couching stitches were manipulated to create pictures on the background of shining gold, the two more boisterous men had their attention on me as well. Finally, after checking the surface of the table and my hands carefully, I pulled out my bag and displayed the small piece I'd designed and worked for my class.

Sherlock glanced at me for permission, thoughtfully showing me his clean fingers, before picking up the scrap of worked linen and holding it close to his eyes. "Quite delicate. You do fine work."

John had gotten up from his seat and moved to peer over Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, fantastic! Those motifs are Egyptian, aren't they?" He glanced up at Greg, who had by that time moved around to rest a knee where John had been sitting, and was leaning awkwardly over the table to see the piece.

"Yeah, looks like a lotus blossom on top, and the feather of Ma'at at the bottom! That's beautiful, Anna." At John's surprised look, he added, "What? I'll have you know, I'm not just a shallow copper."

"Quite right, John. I've been long aware that the culture of Egypt holds a strange and particular fascination for our colleague Lestrade, in contrast to his rougher nature," Sherlock offered as he turned the fabric around, improving Greg's view.

"Never fails to amaze me, how you remember all that stuff and didn't even know my first name all that time," Greg scoffed pleasantly, giving Sherlock's shoulder a little poke. "So Anna, you designed it yourself too?"

I smiled. "I chose the symbols with you in mind. I was thinking I'd get it framed and give it to you, as thanks for letting me stay in your flat."

Two out of three pairs of eyes swiveled to me, as if silently insinuating that Greg might be the one who owed me the thanks. Greg, himself, was too busy raptly studying my work to notice. "Creation and rebirth, in combination with truth, justice, morality and balance. You chose the feather to represent my job, yeh? And you've even patterned this little border in the style of a papyrus painting. I'm honoured."

I took the embroidery back from Sherlock, sitting back down and bending to carefully replace it in my bag and simultaneously hide my flushed cheeks. "So, enough about that. In two weeks I'll have another intense goldwork workshop, but for now I need a break. Is anyone planning to tell me about this kidnap case, or what?"

 

.

 

Our evening together at Baker Street extended an hour or so longer, but soon enough the adrenaline wore off; John and Greg were both swaying on their feet as we made our goodbyes, and even Sherlock appeared to be preparing to go to bed. By the time Greg and I got back to his flat, he was nearly insensible with fatigue.

"It's tough getting older, isn't it? I'll bet back in the day, you could easily pull all-nighters on cases all the time, right?" I said sympathetically, as I led him into his bedroom and helped him off with his rumpled clothing.

"God...no kidding it's harder. Dunno if I ever found it easy though." Greg let out a soul-cracking yawn and I smiled fondly.

"That little girl is so lucky she had you on her side. You just don't give up do you?"

"Ah, well, that'd be Sherlock in large part...I didn't do that much..."

"Don't kid yourself," I chided. "I can tell how important you are to him and his work. And he was gone for three years, right?"

Greg tilted his head at the ceiling blearily, blinking as I pulled his vest off over his head. "He was dead. Yeah."

"But you still had your job, and crimes kept happening, and you kept working. You never give up," I insisted gently, laying my palm over his heart and pressing him the few steps backwards to sit down on the bed.

"Well...can't can I?" Greg's speech was muffled by his pillow as he lay down and rolled onto his side. "I mean...'s only right. It's all I can do, 'n I hafta _do_ it..."

Dismissing the idea of the sofa bed, just this once, I spooned up behind him and whispered into his ear, kissing the back of his neck to punctuate my words. "Truth...justice...morality...and balance." _Ma'at's feather._

 

\-----

 

The next few days were rainy and grey. When Greg was at work I puttered around in my usual way, stitching, reading, and sometimes sketching. I wrote a few postcards to my Mom and some friends, being incredibly vague about my situation. _I may be happy with whatever this is, but that doesn't mean I need to be telling everyone at home I'm moving on. It just feels...weird._ I did write one long letter to my best girlfriend, detailing everything I could bear to tell her about DI Lestrade and our relationship, but swore her to secrecy. Walking back from the post office that Tuesday afternoon, I got a text message from another unfamiliar number.

**I need to consult with you regarding a case. Will you come? -SH**

Amazed, I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and read the words three more times, nearly losing my grip on my umbrella. _Sherlock Holmes wants to consult with me??_

**Are you sure you sent this to the right number? I'm not the type people usually consult with... *A***

**Anna, don't be dull. If I've asked you, then obviously I am quite certain that you are the individual from whom I need assistance. 221B, will you come? -SH**

**Sure, give me about 20 minutes. *A***

I turned around and made my way towards the nearest Tube entrance. _Whatever it is, he's 'quite certain' he needs me. Huh. That's...pretty exciting, actually._ I practically skipped down the stairs.

 

.

 

Less than two blocks from my destination, I suddenly found Holmes himself ducking under my umbrella and walking alongside me. The height discrepancy was fairly significant, so I raised my arm upwards as I turned my head in surprise. "Oh, hello! You startled me."

"Just returning from the shop; your timing is fortuitous," Sherlock greeted me, removing a packet of cigarettes from the plastic bag he carried and tucking it into his suit jacket.

"I didn't know you smoked."

He huffed distractedly. "I don't, anymore, more's the pity. These are to be exchanged for information; there is a certain member of my homeless network who appreciates tokens more than currency." He swiveled his long neck and looked down at me. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell John when he arrives home from the surgery later, he's keen that I shouldn't have a 'secret stash' any longer."

I smirked a bit, shaking out and furling the umbrella while Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B. "Another positive behavior modification, then?"

"Ah, so you were paying attention the other week." _And now we apparently have to TALK about it,_ his expression clearly complained.

"You already knew I was. How should I say this? ...You were _loud_ the other week."

He studied me for a long minute as we mounted the stairs, and I didn't break eye contact as we entered the flat. I mentally willed him to just _spit it out, already_. I didn't know what he could possibly need me for on a case, but since overhearing his tirade at Greg's I'd begun to feel sure he could use a little perspective from outside his small circle.

I watched Sherlock deposit the single item in his bag—a jug of milk—into the refrigerator. "I trust you were able to get back to sleep after I took my leave. Or, back to other activities as the case may be," he drawled casually.

"Sherlock!" I snapped, crossing my arms defensively. 

He turned from the fridge and cast a critical eye over me. "Ah, so the intimacy _has_ been somewhat withdrawn from the situation. I see. On Thursday I rather attributed my observations to a likelihood of slow libido."

"Seriously. That is entirely out of line," I growled, "and don't give me that look like you don't know it. You want to get personal? Fine! How about this? I tell you what's going on with me, since you so _obviously_ are dying to know what Greg's up to...and _you_ have to return the favor." I was pissed off now, and it was doing wonders for both my confidence and my usually-suppressed snarky streak.

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "Return the favour?"

"You give me some idea of what's going on with _you_. I appear to be in a unique position where you're concerned, and believe it or not, even after what you've just said to me, I'm still inclined to use that position to your benefit."

"Whatever do you mean?" His head tilted slightly.

I turned and walked out of the kitchen, ticking points off on my fingers as I went. "One. You have a long history with Greg and obviously look up to him for advice, or at least you have in the past. Two, I already know every word of what you said in Greg's flat two weeks ago. Three, I was present for at least some of what I assume sparked off that argument you had with John. Four, I'm romantically involved with Greg—not that it's _any_ of your business how much—so you can easily assume we've discussed you, and John, at length. This gives me a certain insight from outside your circle, which: five, I am willing and able to give you since I'm not in immediate danger of being hurt by doing so. Finally, six: John and Mrs. Hudson aren't home, so nobody that matters can overhear you. Happy?" I snapped the last, turning to find him standing directly in front of me.

His gaze bored into me, and his mouth pursed tightly. "Did you just _deduce_ me?"

"My mother would say I just sassed you; I used to sass her all the time. Hah." I flopped onto the sofa to punctuate my satisfaction with his stunned reaction.

Sherlock kept staring at me, and I stared right back. He'd got my temper up, and I wasn't about to back down at this point till I got an honest conversation out of him.

"Fine," he agreed reluctantly, narrowing his eyes and dropping into his armchair.

"Fine," I nodded, and took a deep, steadying breath. "Greg and I agree that we rushed into things a little too fast. I'm still staying with him in lieu of a hotel, we're still dating—and we're treating those as two separate things, as much as we can. We both benefit from the companionship. And I'm certain we'll take it further again, at some point, but we've agreed to give each other some time to adjust. Any other intimate detail you need, to reassure yourself of my intentions towards your colleague?"

"Hm. No, I believe that data is sufficient for the time being. It's not a typical arrangement...which explains why my observations were leading me to conflicting conclusions."

 _For the time being?_ "All right. And now, your turn. You were upset, and you're clearly still upset. Tell me about it." I tried hard to project an aura of trustworthiness through my steady expression.

He was silent for a long moment, then threw back his head and let out a noise of frustration. "I admit, deciphering what John wants from me has been exhausting and upsetting. I sometimes perceive that he changes the rules at his whims."

I got more comfortable on the sofa, slipping off my shoes and curling my legs up under me. "Rules? Like, he's really made a list for you to follow?"

"Not per se. There are, however, an indexed set of conclusions I have been able to draw from extensive observation of his reactions to my presence." Sherlock gazed at the ceiling and vaguely gestured as he spoke, curling his long fingers in the air near his head.

"Ugh, so you're just being creepy and running your flatmate as an experiment. Fine, creepy is normal for you, I'm starting to get that. But...have you ever just, I don't know, talked to him about how he actually feels?"

This earned me a pointed look. "Must you be so pedestrian? Or do you truly believe that the four or five therapist's sessions you had over your performance anxiety issues in university qualify you to counsel others?"

I closed my eyes a moment and let out a long, careful breath through my nose. _How does John do it. How._ Gathering myself, I tried another tack. "Oh-kayy. I don't want to repeat what I know you already heard from Greg, and I haven't gotten to know John much better than I know you yet, but obviously there's some emotional turmoil involved here. And that's unpredictable, by its very nature. You follow?"

Sherlock's only response was a tiny sniff, as he continued to examine the ceiling.

"What it seems like you're not processing is that there's no formula. Sherlock, there's no right combination of dry, logical actions that are just going to make things right. Unless the action you take is to sit down and _talk_ to him."

"I make an effort to initiate discussion on a regular basis," Sherlock stated, defensively. "Just this morning I attempted to draw parallels between John's reluctance to remain alone in the same room with me and certain observations in the field of apiology."

"Beekeeping. You're comparing your closest friendship to beekeeping. And you think that'll draw John out. Wow, this was never so hard with Andy..." I trailed off, rolling my eyes.

"And this 'Andy' was so similar to me?" Sherlock sneered as he said it, and my heart tugged a moment because that _particular_ sneer, actually, was incredibly Andy.

I thought back on charming, flamboyant, erratic Andy, whom I'd shadowed since we were seven. When we went off to college together, we became a trio with Chaz—immediately inseparable; when Chaz and Andy fell in love I was elated. And then, on move-in day sophomore year, when Andy accidentally-maybe-on-purpose outed Chaz in front of his family—I'd been left picking up the pieces on both sides of the friendship, and it had taken more than two years to repair the damage. I sighed sadly and clutched a throw pillow on my lap.

"He wasn't exactly an insufferable genius. And he wasn't suddenly back from the dead. But he did something that hurt a person who loved him very much, and he didn't know how to make it right for a long time," I replied quietly, shifting my gaze to the new sunlight starting to filter through the lace curtains.

We were both quiet for a moment, lost in our own thoughts. Eventually I released my hold on the pillow. "That's all I can handle on this right now. But don't imagine you can get away from the subject forever. I'm going to go use your restroom, and when I come back you can tell me why I'm really here, all right?"

 

.

 

When I returned to the living room, Sherlock had moved to stand at the window. He gestured at the table next to him, directing my attention to a gleaming dagger, resting in the center of a deep blue velvet wrapping cloth. It was small in scale but ornate, the gilded hilt intricately fashioned into scrolls, swashes and miniature figures.

"I hate to burst your bubble, Sherlock, but I'm not going to be able to tell you a thing about this dagger you don't already know."

"Of course not. For your information, this is a unique Renaissance artifact accurately dated to the year 1561. It is markedly similar to the equally impressive Dagger of the Grand Masters of the Knights of Saint John, presented in 1565 by King Philip II of Spain to Jean de la Valette. That ceremonial weapon resides in the Louvre; this one, created slightly earlier by the same master artisan, is supposed to be on display among the exhibits at the Tower of London."

I boggled a bit at his words, and leaned closer to peer at the dagger. "You have a real four-hundred-and-fifty year old weapon in your living room. Okay."

"Yes, it is real," Sherlock confirmed, beginning to pace in a slow circuit around the room. "I have performed a range of tests to verify its authenticity. And yet, it is ostensibly not missing. It is, in fact, well accounted for at the Tower at this very moment. And it is not known to have any other duplicate or cousin in existence. Therefore, the dagger on display is a forgery, though an incredibly good one."

"You haven't performed similar tests on the displayed dagger?"

"No, in this instance I have so far found it prudent not to run through official channels. I would require the assistance of my brother's minor position in the British government in order to gain anything beyond visual access to the second dagger...and Mycroft's current attitude towards me is less than hospitable. I won't allow him to meddle in my affairs unless the case is of utmost urgency; this, while intriguing, has not as of yet proven to be so."

I recalled Greg mentioning Mycroft at least once, briefly, and also thought back to an odd little moment during one of our evening walks, when Greg had suddenly stopped and waved to a CCTV camera. Up until this moment, I hadn't put those particular pieces together; that was an unsettling thought to come back to later. "All right then. Nothing official, got it. So how did you come to have this dagger here?"

Sherlock was back to peering out the window, and glanced briefly at the door behind me before answering. "A private client approached me regarding its provenance. He had purchased it through a dealer in Turkey, who had in turn received it by way of a broker in Kazakhstan. That broker was, unfortunately, unaware of its true origins."

Just then, footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Sherlock was already settling himself back into his armchair, crossing his legs and looking up to greet John as he entered the room with a grocery bag. "Hello, John."

"Sherlock," John nodded in greeting, then turned to notice me on the sofa. "Oh, afternoon Anna!" He walked past us into the kitchen, opening the fridge to put away his purchases and pausing. "Well—I see you decided to reinstate your milk-buying experiment without warning. Fine, we'll just have _two_ this week." He finished up and shut the fridge door, a bit firmly, before turning back to me with a slightly forced smile. "How are you, Anna? What brings you by today?"

I shrugged and smiled. "Actually, I hadn't yet been enlightened."

John's head snapped towards Sherlock and his eyebrows raised into his hairline for a moment. "Sherlock? Care to explain yourself to your guest? Or at least, offer her tea...!" He tutted, moving back into the kitchen and putting on the kettle.

 

.

 

Sherlock waited until we all were seated with steaming mugs before continuing. "As I had already been explaining to Anna, I am tracking a master antiquities forger who appears to be replacing exhibited artifacts with replacements, while selling the originals. Aside from the dagger I have here, I have found suspicious reports of a seventeenth century musket and a number of swords in circulation, all with similar provenance issues. Fairly odd, in that a forgery artist of such skill would be theoretically able to turn a profit selling only his own works, but reports state that these items floating around all seem to be the real thing. The criminal in question appears to be in a location where he has access to both the artifacts themselves and to the venues where they are certified and exhibited."

John sipped at his tea and shared a bland look with me. "Right, okay."

"Anna," here Sherlock perfunctorily gestured towards me, "is currently studying at the Royal School of Needlework at Hampton Court Palace."

I nodded slowly. "I am...and this is important, why?"

"Also in the Palace, the Historic Royal Palaces Conservation Program is employing a small staff to maintain, catalogue and restore over twenty-eight hundred artifacts of arms and armour. All of these questionable weapons trace back to this program at one point or another. I believe one of the conservators there is the person I'm looking for, but I will need to gain access to find proof." Sherlock replaced his mug on the table and looked up at me expectantly.

"Now hold on. What are you trying to get Anna involved in? She can't be sneaking around a palace for you!" John looked a bit alarmed.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not, John, don't be obtuse! I am merely requesting Anna's assistance in gaining a copied access card, that will allow me to slip in behind the secure areas of the arts facility. It should be a simple matter for me to find the evidence I need on my own."

"By yourself, then." If anything, John looked more upset at this than at the idea of sending an innocent woman on a secret mission. "Really."

"I believe you would be more helpful in a corollary position, John. Nearby but unsuspected. With two of us skulking the hallways together, we're more likely to be discovered," the detective reasoned. He glanced at me, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

I chewed on my lip a bit, considering. "Well, my next class is a weekend workshop...it's not till weekend after this. They issue security badges at the beginning of the first class day, and the pass is invalidated after the second day. But they don't take them back from us in between."

"Excellent. You can come here after your first day; I will have acquired the appropriate equipment by then, and will be able to create a duplicate badge reprogrammed to allow me all-area access. With an original on hand, it won't be too difficult—a matter of hours at the most."

John looked worriedly back and forth between the two of us. "Right. Right. And how exactly is this corollary position going to work?"

 

.

 

Not long after, I found myself seated at John's laptop, browsing through the RSN class schedule, with the doctor peering over my shoulder. "Look, John, this one should be perfect. 'Introduction to Blackwork', Saturday, October eleventh. It's only a one-day class, and the project options should be pretty basic. Sure you want to do this, though?"

"It's the best way to keep myself nearby. And besides, I can handle a needle. I've done enough sutures in my life—how hard can it be?"

I giggled and looked up at him. "It'll be fun, trust me! I'll make sure you don't have any problems with it. Class will be a lot more fun, sitting by someone I actually know...and maybe you'll have a nice Christmas gift for Mrs. Hudson by the end of it." Craning my neck around, I called, "How about that, Sherlock? Ten o'clock, on the eleventh. Can you wait till then to do your sneaking around?"

Sherlock didn't flinch from his meditative stretch on the sofa. "This case can keep that long. I do hope Lestrade comes up with something interesting for me in the meantime, though."

John patted me on the shoulder. "All right, shove over, I'll put in my payment information..."

 

\-----

 

"You certainly seem lost in thought tonight," Greg commented gently. We were walking a few streets over, on our way to see a film, as we'd planned that morning before he left for work.

"Mm? Sorry, Greg. I've had a pretty busy day, I guess it's thrown me off a bit," I apologized, squeezing his hand. "I didn't even think to ask yet, how was work?"

"My day was fine, no complaints. You've got my attention, though. Tell me about yours." There was a smile in his voice, and it brought my awareness to the fact that I'd been walking with my eyes fixed near my feet.

I looked up, smiling myself at the sight of Greg Lestrade's earnest, handsome face. "Well...I ran out to the ATM and the post office in the morning, and then I spent most of the afternoon over at 221B."

"Oh yeah? Nice of John to ask you over."

"Actually, it was Sherlock who asked me to come," I corrected.

Greg's eyebrows rose a bit. "Oh? Now, love, you've _definitely_ got my attention."

"Yeah, it's kind of weird, but he's actually asked me for some help on a case."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Greg pulled up to a stop on the sidewalk. " _What_?"

"Hey, no need to panic, sweetie. I'll explain it all to you." I tugged at his hand a bit, but he didn't start walking. "Really, it's barely got anything to do with me at all."

"All right, but tell me please." He looked worried and upset, a bit out of proportion to what I'd told him. _Just at the mention of Sherlock involving me. John reacted badly too. Did that man give them both PTSD or something?_

"Of course!" As concisely as I could, I detailed the situation with the dagger and the other artifacts, and explained how my assistance would figure in. Greg was silent as he processed what I was telling him.

"Can we keep walking? I don't want to be late for the movie," I urged, and brushed my thumb over his hand, still entwined with mine.

He reluctantly started moving again. "Sorry for the harsh reaction. It's just, Sherlock gets into a lot of dangerous cases."

"I understand. And I don't mind you worrying. But I won't be there as anything but John's babysitter, basically."

Greg grunted noncommittally and swung my arm a bit as we entered the theatre lobby.

 

.

 

Walking back after the movie, Greg threw his arm around my shoulders. "Love...Do you think I worry too much?"

"No," I answered, "no, you're probably right to be concerned. If this were any typical case of Sherlock's, you'd expect death and violence and mayhem, right?"

He chuckled. "Well, maybe not exactly _that_. I just don't know how I feel about trusting him to keep you safe."

"Why, because he didn't keep you safe?" I asked in a light tone, snaking my arm around his waist.

"Actually, funny thing, I didn't tell you about that did I?" Greg tried for a light tone too, but it only lasted a moment. "Turns out, when Sherlock faked his death it was to do just that. Not just me, John too of course. And Mrs. Hudson. He explained it all to us when he reappeared back in June, we would have all three been taken down by Moriarty's snipers right then if he hadn't jumped." A strangled little half-laugh stuck in his throat. "So there's that."

I shuddered slightly and reached my free hand up to hold Greg's where it rested on my shoulder. "Hm. Seems I have something to thank him for, then."

We spent another couple minutes walking silently, tucked in tight to each other. I tried to visualize myself in a London in which I'd never met DI Lestrade, and beyond the momentarily amusing thought that I might have found myself in a strange pub at ten-thirty in the morning, I mostly drew a blank. It seemed that my entire experience of the city was being permanently colored by Greg's kind eyes and gorgeous smile; nearly every sight I'd seen and activity I'd undertaken in the past five weeks had been by his side or involved thinking of him. _Am I really falling this hard?_ I thought, internally shaking my head at myself. It was an awfully teenage way to be feeling at nearly age forty—shouldn't I be more independent right now? I studied his profile when he released me to unlock his door, and had to blink to dispel the sudden, frightening image of a bullethole marring that serious face, and the realization that the London I'd been attempting to imagine didn't include Greg because he wasn't _alive_ to meet me. I tried to cover the involuntary gasp it caused— _damn my vivid imagination!_ —but it got Greg's attention, and a frown creased his brow as he ushered me inside. "What are you thinking about, love?"

"Too much," I blurted before I could stop and censor myself.

"Ah, it was just a film and a nice walk," Greg attempted, "surely that's not too serious?" Searching my eyes, his self-deprecating smile faltered. Something must have been clear on my face, because after a moment he grimaced. "Shouldn't have mentioned the snipers, should I?"

I moved my mouth, but found myself momentarily unable to speak.

"Christ, it's weighed on my mind enough over the last few months. I shouldn't have burdened you with it," Greg continued, leading me to sit with him on the sofa.

"Really—it's okay. It makes sense of a few things," I croaked, clearing my throat to free it of its sudden tightness. "It's just—what if we hadn't met?"

The words weren't quite enough to get across what I was feeling, and before I could try again Greg looked away and shrugged uncomfortably. "My work is pretty rough sometimes. Long hours, unpredictable situations, and that's even before Sherlock was part of it, and before I got promoted. Tracy—I think that's part of what drove her away. Maybe a large part. You're probably right to keep your distance."

"No, I—I don't mean we're doing too much. I mean—I'm feeling too much..." _That's not what I'm trying to say either, damn it,_ I thought, mentally kicking myself at the immediate shift in his expression. I caught his hands in mine, bringing them together at my heart. "I'm falling for you, Greg. I really, really am, and it frightens me."

"Anna, I've been trying _so_ hard not to suck you into my life. You've got no idea..."

"Oh, you're sucking all right!" We both laughed at that, and the tension was somewhat broken.

 

\-----

 

It seemed like no time at all before Wednesday came back around, and John met up with me for an afternoon of stitchery shopping. After I chose out the Aida cloth, threads, embroidery hoop and other supplies he'd be required to have in class, and then spent a little quality time bolstering my own personal stash, we moved on to a coffee shop to rest and chat.

"I don't mean to offend, but I find it a little odd, actually, that Sherlock's shown such interest in you," John commented, seating himself on a cozy sofa facing the shop door.

I settled into the overstuffed armchair next to him. "I suppose I could call it flattering, but I know it's got to be just because I'm getting involved with Greg, right?"

"On the surface, I suppose so," John mused, "but it's not as if he ever willingly spent time with Tracy before..."

Blowing at the foam in my cup, I asked, "Did you ever meet her?"

"Just once, early on. There was a staff party at the Yard and Greg invited us, but Sherlock wouldn't come. She was there but they were having it out, and she left pretty early. They were already off-again-on-again at that point, and he moved into his own flat a couple months later."

"So, I imagine Tracy was already a known quantity to Sherlock by the time you met Greg, though. Maybe he paid attention to her more, at first?"

John laughed. "It's before I met him, but I can't quite imagine that either!" He looked thoughtful a moment, sipping at his coffee. "Though I do remember that Sherlock was always very quick to point out his deductions about Tracy's infidelity...Hmm, he might _not_ have just been acting a prat. He may have thought of it as doing a service to Greg—I guess I never saw it like that."

I quirked up one side of my mouth. "Who knows, maybe now that he's managed to pin me down and interrogate me on my status with Greg, I'll become less obviously interesting. Case aside."

"Interrogate you? Oh god, I'm sorry Anna, he can be brutal—"

I waved my hand casually. "Ahh, it wasn't that bad! Besides, I brought it on myself by creating a relationship situation that wasn't easily deducible, I suppose. I think Sherlock just needed to know which box to tick."

"Well, now I'm intrigued," John chuckled, leaning forward. "Which box did he tick, if I may ask?"

I smiled wryly. "Box-ticking is possibly not an accurate metaphor...What it comes down to is basically that we rushed into bed together, and then afterwards agreed to cool it temporarily. We're in more of a courtship phase, now." Somehow giving the information to John seemed less embarrassing now than it had the previous week. _Now at least everyone's on the same page, right?_

"That's actually...surprisingly sweet, for Greg," commented John. "I can't say I'm pleased that Sherlock cornered you for information, but it makes sense in his own way. He loves to hide it, but I suppose he's always cared about Greg's happiness in one way or another, hasn't he?" After another contemplative pause, John shrugged. "Now if only Sherlock would have been so supportive of MY relationships. Maybe I might've been able to keep a girlfriend more than three weeks..."

I knew I was verging onto delicate ground, but I felt the question begging to be asked. "You're not dating lately, though?"

"Ah, I gave it up as a bad job." He studied the ceiling, then examined his cup. "Seemed like, before...before, it was as if Sherlock was trying to scare off anyone I brought around. It got pretty frustrating, to be quite honest. Eventually I dropped the idea, pretty much—it just seemed like, if it was going to be a bone of contention, why fight it? The life I had going, our partnership, the excitement—that was more important right then. And then there was so much going on, it didn't even occur to me for a while. By the time he—" John broke off suddenly, unconsciously straightening his posture, and his jaw worked helplessly. "...Well. I was used to not having a girlfriend. And then, I couldn't stomach the idea of looking for one."

I took a slow sip to allow him a moment of silence before I asked, gently, "And now? Would you want one? If things are back to normal?"

"Now?" He shrugged, and continued in a frustrated but fond tone. "Well, Sherlock's back. But what's 'normal'? He's acting completely mental, lately. More so than before, and that's _saying_ something. He's never been easy to figure out, but all this—he's out buying extra milk one week, the next he's not even letting tea pass his lips; one day he's suddenly all about the social graces, and the next day he's refusing to talk; and then there was the week he insisted on standing exactly one metre from me at all times—I don't know what it is! D'you know, the other morning he went off on some incomprehensible tangent about bees, when I was just trying to tell him I'd got a shift at the surgery!"

At the mention of bees, I choked a bit on my cappuccino.

John heaved a deep, slow sigh. "If I'm going to be completely honest with myself—no, I don't want to date anymore. The idea of a girlfriend doesn't interest me in the slightest, it seems. I just—I want to know I'm not about to drop off a cliff, at any moment. If that makes any sense at all."

I tried to marshal my thoughts towards a quick decision. Would it be prudent, or even polite, to try offering advice based on what I'd heard from Sherlock? And did I even know enough yet to draw a conclusion? Before I could find something to say, though, John's phone tinkled and he pulled it from his jacket.

"Oop, that's Sherlock, Greg's called him out; there's been a body found wedged into the ceiling beams in a multistorey car park apparently. Hm, that's possibly a new one." He nodded apologetically as he stood. "I've got to go, see you Saturday evening I suppose?"

"I'll be there with bells on. Or at least an access badge," I grinned.

 

\-----

 

Saturday morning, I boarded the train at Waterloo Station just as normal, but the long ride didn't relax and center me as it usually did; my mind was incredibly restless. At first I spent time nervously going over all of the different spots where I planned to take photos with my phone, for Sherlock's benefit. _At least two of the approach, a few in the hallways, three or four around the security line..._ I suddenly remembered one very important thing, and whipped my phone out to turn off the annoying shutter noise on my phone camera. I took a few practice shots of the sparsely occupied carriage while pretending to write a text message, reassuring myself that I could take photos without looking obvious.

After all of that, my thoughts moved on to Greg, as they so often did, but in my worried mood I found myself focusing on everything I'd been trying not to think about.

 _I'm a coward. I'm denying myself what I want only because I know I have to go home at the end of it...No. I'm not a coward, I'm being kind to Greg, I'm not taking it too far because he'll have to lose me,_ I argued inside my head. _But if kindness was my reason, I shouldn't even be staying there! It's ridiculous. If anything, I'm being more cruel to him. And to myself._

I tried to switch my train of thought to the scenery, to my class, to anything else, but it kept coming back. _Why should I deny us both something good? And oh, god, it was good!_ My face flushed and my hands tightened around my bag. _What am I proving by being a prude? We're both getting older, and there's no sense in denying ourselves pleasure, however fleeting. 'Better to have loved and lost...' isn't that right?_

At that thought, I pursed my lips and resolved to have an honest talk with Greg at my first opportunity.

Although I was sure that my agitated mental state would be visible like a giant red flag, I did make it through the Palace security areas just as easily as every other time I'd been there, snapping my pictures without a problem. I even impulsively took a few discreet shots of the regular guards, with the fleeting thought that something about their appearance might be useful to Sherlock. Satisfied that I'd done my best, I continued down the hall into the workshop area and settled into preparation for my goldwork class. The process of creating my personal work space, laying out my assortment of tools, various silk and metal threads and tiny sparkly paillettes, finally did the trick to calm me down and get my mind where I needed it.

 

.

 

That evening, I arrived as promised at 221B Baker Street to find a heated discussion taking place between Greg and Sherlock in the living room. Quickly determining from the hallway that I didn't really need to be in the room while they argued about the parking garage killer, I took the other door from the hall into the kitchen area and hung my bags on one of the chairs. "Hi John, still on that ceiling guy I see?"

John turned from the sink, smiling. "Hi Anna. Yes—Sherlock's convinced it has something to do with another unexplained body found two years ago," he told me, leaning over to nudge hands-free into the quick hug I gave him in greeting.

I picked up a towel and began helping him dry the dishes as he washed. "That's interesting. And knowing him, he's probably right." We shared a companionable smile.

"I'm sure he very well may be," Greg grumbled, entering the kitchen, "but getting orders for an exhumation isn't easy as snapping my fingers!" He approached from behind me, briefly clasping my shoulder and planting a light kiss just in front of my ear. "All right, love?"

"Mm, hi there." I turned my head and stole a second quick peck, on the lips this time.

John finished washing the last glass, passed it over to me with a nod of thanks, and dried his hands on a second towel. "Thought I'd order some takeaway, Angelo's okay with you two?"

I glanced at Greg for a cue, since I wasn't familiar with the restaurant. He grinned and nodded. "Anna would probably love his pesto with prawns. I'll go with the carbonara. And ask him for extra garlic bread, yeh?"

"Aw, you know my pasta order, how romantic," I giggled, nudging his side.

"Well, romance _is_ my middle name." Greg threw his arm over my shoulders and gave me a fond squeeze.

John smirked. "I thought that was Samuel?"

Sherlock chose that moment to clear his throat, and I turned to see him leaning in the doorframe. "Names entirely aside, could we get down to business now? Anna?" His tone was clinical and cool, but when he met my gaze I could swear there was something subtly amused in his expression. Rolling my eyes indulgently, I detached myself from Greg and retrieved my bag from the other side of the kitchen.

 

.

 

John and Greg stayed where they were, chatting, while I followed Sherlock. Instead of returning to the main room as I'd expected, he led me down the hall, past the bathroom.

"Your bedroom?" I questioned, as he opened the door.

"Unfortunately, the evidence from my current murder case, and the old case files relating to it, are taking too much space out there," Sherlock muttered. "John got upset tonight when I began setting up this equipment in the kitchen. Aside from his bedroom, which I determined would be an ill-advised choice, this was the only option."

"All right." I opened the front pocket of my purse and pulled out the Royal School of Needlework access pass, handing it over. Sherlock accepted it wordlessly, sat on his bed, and inserted it into one of the electronic devices in the small array wired together with the laptop on the coverlet.

I glanced behind me to see that the bedroom door had fallen mostly closed behind us. "So, still having issues with John getting upset?" I asked casually, letting my gaze roam around Sherlock's room.

"Still having issues with not having sex?" he retorted sharply.

"No need to get defensive," I chuckled softly, aware that he was just trying to put me off the conversation. "We're on even ground here." I moved to the other side of the room as I spoke, and made myself comfortable in the small chair.

A quizzical expression crossed Sherlock's face. _Confused that I'm not reacting like a typical female, perhaps?_ "You believe it may be desirable to revisit our mutual agreement."

"Sure, why not? You've spent some time with Greg recently, you probably made some observations that I could loosely interpret as advice. And I went out with John last Wednesday."

"Ah." He was quiet a moment, typing and adjusting controls. "So you feel you require advice?"

 _Okay, apparently I always have to go first. Hooray._ "Well...I guess I'm a little conflicted about things right now. It's becoming clear to me that I've got some pretty strong feelings here. But as you well know, I'm going to have to leave; my visa expires in a little less than six weeks."

Sherlock's response was slow to come and almost mechanical in tone, and his eyes remained fixed on his work. "You're questioning your decision to hold back from getting too involved, but you are afraid any choice you make will negatively affect Lestrade."

"That's about right. Look, I know this isn't your area of expertise. I'm not asking you to tell me what I should do, Sherlock, and I'm not even sure I'd do what you told me if you did. I just...want some outside input on him."

The detective tapped a few keys with an air of finality, then swiveled on the bed to face me, pulling his knees up to his chin in an almost childlike pose. He looked so adorably surreal in this setting, with his violet silk-clad arms wrapped around his incredibly long legs and his shiny designer shoes fidgeting on the covers, that I couldn't help but smile.

After a long, considering silence, Sherlock began to speak. "Lestrade has been making an effort not to mention you while working."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that statement. "Um, okay..."

"Or, possibly, he has more accurately been attempting not to refer to you in _my_ presence while working. Similar appearance from my point of view. However, it has become apparent to me during the past week's case work that although Lestrade has kept all but a bare minimum of knowledge about you from Donovan and Anderson, he has had at least one conversation mentioning you to Molly Hooper at the morgue. This tells me that he's worried that showing much sentiment will cause his colleagues at the Yard to doubt his professionalism, but that he is serious enough about his relationship with you to seek advice from a trusted female friend. Finally, although he has successfully refrained from mentioning you by name at work, he has exhibited a number of unique behavioural tics which are indicative of intense romantic distraction."

I was feeling a bit overwhelmed with the onslaught of information; I blinked a few times, and managed a shaky, "Thank you," to which Sherlock nodded solemnly.

After a moment to clear my head, it was time to change the subject. "So. I had a nice chat with John the other day. He was a bit distressed that you're being so erratic lately."

He rolled his head over his shoulder to check his computer screen, then turned back. "In my estimation, his behaviour has been nearly as erratic as mine."

Somehow I doubted that, but I continued, unperturbed. "Well, you're surely provoking some of those reactions—"

"If I'm not provoking him to reaction, it's as if he's not even there! He withdraws into a shell, it's nothing like he used to be. If anything, it is the lack of his steadfast companionship that's driven me to work out ways to test the situation."

I was certain I couldn't do much to alter Sherlock's resolve to treat his friendship as an experiment, so I skipped that topic and pushed on. "In terms of the two of you, he seems to want more assurance that you're sticking around. That you won't be endangering yourself, or suddenly deciding that another case requires you to leave him again like last time."

"That's absurd. As a matter of course, I endanger myself no more than is strictly necessary. And—I would never leave him again. Never." His eyes were wide and a little wild, and his voice got softer and softer as he spoke.

"Don't take this the wrong way if I'm mistaken. But when you say 'steadfast companionship'? I'm hearing something a bit more than that..." I trailed off into a weighty silence.

"Love." The word dropped from Sherlock's lips on a barely audible breath.

"But you haven't told him," I murmured almost as quietly.

Sherlock's gaze slid helplessly to one side. "Not as such."

I spoke as gently and carefully as if I were talking someone off a ledge. "Look, I can't guarantee I'm making perfect assumptions here. But when he told me that he had no interest any longer in dating or in finding a girlfriend...well, I do get the sense that he wouldn't be averse to knowing."

Sherlock raised his pale eyes to meet mine. "And the thought that I might leave him is really what's upsetting him most?"

I nodded. "John likened it to feeling like he's about to fall off a cliff."

His face went completely still as my words sank in, and he focused intently on his knees. "Then...I shall have to find a way to build a bridge."

I found myself briefly speechless, with a little prickle at the back of my eyes. Before I could say anything else, the moment was ended by a muffled shout from the other end of the flat. "Hey, Anna, the food's here!"

 

.

 

As I started back up the hallway towards the kitchen, I realized I still had my purse on my shoulder. That reminded me suddenly of my morning's activities; I got out my phone, pulling up the gallery application, and looked behind me at Sherlock. "Here, I took some photos at the Palace today, too. Thought it might come in handy."

He took the phone from my outstretched hand and began flipping through the album. "Above and beyond, Ms. Clark. I'd almost think you were trying to impress me."

I raised an eyebrow as I took a seat at the table next to Greg. "I'm fairly sure I've already impressed you as much as I'm ever bound to, which is probably not much."

His eyes flickered up to me and back to the phone, and he made no move to sit down himself. "Hm." He stopped scrolling and zoomed in on one image. "Oh, well _done_ on catching this guard. This is his regular shift?"

"He's been there every morning I've been there, so far, which is four times. Plus he was there the day I picked up my registration packet."

"Excellent, he'll be easy to get around with a well-timed distraction. It's apparent from these photos that he is practically blind in his left eye," Sherlock replied.

John passed me one of the containers of pasta from the bag he was unpacking. "That's encouraging. Everything going well with the access card?"

Sherlock hummed and placed my phone on the table next to my elbow. "The software is running smoothly; we should have the new card programmed in another hour or so."

"Bit slow, innit?" questioned Greg, around a bite of garlic bread.

"The home version is hardly the easiest task to accomplish, you know," retorted the detective. "I would have needed to lay hands on the original equipment in order to fabricate a faked card faster."

Greg swallowed and glanced at me. "But this'll do the trick, yeh?"

"Yes, Lestrade, this will 'do the trick'. Now, the smell of the food is putting me off. I'll be monitoring the software. I need to think," Sherlock stated as he abruptly left the room.

The rest of our meal was passed in pleasant conversation. John and Greg told me the story of their Baskerville case, which with Greg's colorful commentary included seemed much more like a combination action blockbuster and horror film than when I'd read it on John's blog. Greg pampered me with subtle touches as the three of us chatted; pats on my arm, nudges to my knee from his, and an occasional brush against my hand all combined to make me almost light-headed by the time John pulled dessert from the bag.

"Compliments of Angelo himself," announced John, setting a large portion of tiramisu and two spoons on the table between me and Greg.

My handsome companion grinned. "Hah, that man still spoils you and Sherlock rotten. And I can't say as I mind!"

 

.

 

Later we headed home together, having retrieved my card from Sherlock. The detective had assured us before we left that the copied card he now possessed would allow him access into any area of the palace he required. In the comfort of our cab, we lapsed into a pleasant silence, holding hands; I looked out at the passing city and lost myself in thought. I let my mind wander over the emotional roller coaster of my last few weeks, lingering on a few moments: my first kiss with Greg, and the fireworks that followed; the twinkle in his eyes as he said good morning to me that first time; the tightness I'd felt in my chest when he'd been upset and wouldn't meet my eye; the fizzy happiness I felt when he entered the room.

Finally, I turned my head and broke the quiet. "What are you thinking about?"

"You. Always you, Anna, seems like anymore that's all I think about." He ducked his head in a shy little gesture as he said it.

"Greg..."

He shifted in his seat to face me completely and took both my hands in his. "What are _you_ thinking, love?"

"I'm thinking I'm going about this all wrong." A spark of excitement and trepidation fluttered in my stomach as I searched his deep brown eyes. "That agreement we made..."

"Yes," Greg prompted me, almost in a whisper.

"It's been three weeks. I think it's time to reconsider it, don't you?" 

"Darling, I thought you'd never ask," he murmured, just before his lips met mine.

 

-x-x-x-


	3. Part 3

The insistent buzz of an alarm clock jarred me out of a beautiful dream.

"Mmph," I groaned into my pillow as an arm reached over my shoulder and across my back to shut it off.

There was a low, sultry chuckle very near my left ear. "I just adore how very much you are not a morning person."

I turned my head but couldn't see anything, because five-thirty in the morning is too dark for nice things like eye contact. "'S fine, just, shouldn't you be sleeping on the side closest to your alarm?"

Greg did me one better than eye contact, and gave me some lip contact instead. "Mm, but then I wouldn't have such a good excuse to start my day by touching you," he said, so close to me that I could feel his lips form the words against my cheek.

I smiled in the dark. "Wish you didn't have to work again today..."

"Me too, love. But I needed to take the extra shift so I could switch with Dimmock for Saturday."

"Saturday? What're you doing Saturday?" I yawned, coming to full awareness slowly.

Greg answered in a light tone, "Thought I'd take an educational tour. I hear they've got a full Tudor court setup over at Hampton Palace."

"What?" I rolled fully onto my side facing him. "You're kidding me."

"Dead serious, Anna. If there's even the slightest chance that Sherlock could run into trouble with this, I want to be nearby to help defuse the situation. I know it's not supposed to be a dangerous case, but stranger things have happened. Besides, I hear from a reliable source that the Palace is a lovely sight this time of year..."

"Huh. Well, I've got no issue with it. It's not like we'll be spending the day in the same room or anything, but the palace is open two hours longer than the class goes. We could eat lunch together, too."

"And I look forward to that. But," he sighed, sitting up, "for now I really do need to get going."

"Ugh, you're so energetic in the mornings. How d'you do it." I turned back onto my stomach, curving my lips into the pillow as I felt Greg lean over and brush my long hair away from my shoulders.

"Long years of practice, and a timer on my coffeemaker," he murmured, pressing a slow kiss into the base of my neck.

 

.

 

After getting up at a perfectly reasonable eight fifteen, I stretched sore muscles and sat with my coffee by the window, wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe, considering for the hundredth time how amazing the man chance had brought me to meet really was. It had been five days since our dinner at Baker Street, and things between Greg and me were nothing short of effervescent. He'd been at work a fair amount—finishing up the paperwork on the odd case of the car park killer, among other things—but when he was off duty, we filled every moment together enthusiastically. _You'd think we were both twenty again,_ I thought, and smiled wryly into my coffee cup. For a moment I considered myself at that age, and thought about this same day twenty years ago. It had been the afternoon of October ninth, five days before my twentieth birthday, that I'd agreed to go on a blind date for coffee at the insistence of my classmate Kelly; I clearly remembered seeing the gangly blond nervously waiting to meet me for the first time. _Oh, David, we were so young. And you were such a spaz that day, it's a wonder I gave you my number..._ I marveled at the realization that for once, I was looking back on my time with David with fondness instead of pain and guilt. I raised my coffee in a silent toast to the skies, then stood to go change and start my day; the framing shop opened at ten, and I had a few pieces to drop off.

 

\-----

 

On Saturday morning Greg and I got up at the same time to get ready together, which led almost inevitably to some playful delay. Skipping breakfast was the price we paid, a fair trade in my opinion, in order to get out the door on time. We met up with our friends at a pastry shop near the train station; while John was dressed fairly normally in a dapper blue jumper over a check shirt, Sherlock looked very unlike himself wearing jeans, a dark jumper and a ballcap.

"I need to be inconspicuous in the line," he explained, when Greg stopped short and goggled at his outfit.

I pointed out, "Well, then you should probably be carrying some kind of tote bag; nobody lines up to get in the class area without their supplies."

"Hm. Wait here, five minutes." With that, the detective disappeared among the passerby outside the shop.

"Guess I've got time to grab a cuppa, after all," Greg stated in a satisfied tone, moving towards the counter. "D'you want anything? How about you John?"

 

.

 

Once we were settled on the train with our pastries and beverages, the three of us were treated to a short rundown on Sherlock's plan of action. "I don't expect a confrontation will be necessary today. I intend to acquire physical proof of forged artifacts, and observe the suspects to determine the culprit, plus anything I can glean about the reasoning behind the odd nature of their crime. Once I have proof in hand, and have tested the artifacts to my satisfaction, Lestrade can obtain warrants and continue on from there."

Greg chuckled. "No confrontation, eh? Sounds nice and safe. In other words, completely abnormal. You feeling all right, mate?"

Sherlock sniffed and looked from our entwined hands, to my face, as he replied. "Perfectly well, thank you."

I met Sherlock's eyes and silently answered the question I saw there with a small smile and a nod. _Yes, we're back on, thanks for your concern._ His nod in return was nearly imperceptible.

 

.

 

About forty minutes later, our group crossed the stately bridge and approached Hampton Court Palace. Greg stopped us, pulling out his camera and handing it to John. "I'm off to the main entrance, we split off over here. John, get a shot of me and Anna would you?"

John obliged, taking a few photos of Greg and me, arm in arm, with the red brick crenellations and spiral-patterned chimneys of the Palace rising up behind us. As he snapped a last shot of Greg planting a sneaky kiss on my cheek, Sherlock muttered, "How very touristy."

"Yeah, well, that's our cover isn't it?" John responded with a smile, thrusting the camera into Sherlock's hands. "Might as well play along. Here, get me in some too."

Sherlock's mouth turned down petulantly, but he took five or six shots of the three of us grinning together. Handing the camera back to Greg, he made a show of checking the time on his phone. "Come along now, we don't want John and Anna to be late for their class."

Greg pulled me into a quick kiss, squeezing me tight before stepping back. "All right then. See you at lunch, Anna, John. Sherlock, you watch yourself." Shooting a serious look towards the taller man, he turned and started down the path away from us.

I watched him go for a moment, my gaze lingering briefly on the fine fit of his slacks; then I hurried to catch up to the other two men approaching the RSN entrance area. We all three swiped our cards and joined the small procession of people passing the guards. Just as I reached John's side, he glanced over and muttered under his breath, "Sorry," then a split second later launched himself into a spectacular pratfall directly in my path. We both went down—though not as hard as it looked, since John skillfully placed himself to catch my weight—and all our supplies went flying. In the subsequent confusion, both the female guard and the guard with the bad left eye rushed over to help us collect our belongings; the contents of our bags were scattered over a large area of the hallway. Once we were both righted, three tote bags were returned to us and we reassured the guards we were both uninjured. We continued on down the hall, John profusely and loudly apologizing to me all the way to the corner. It was all I could do to wait till we were out of sight of everyone before beginning to giggle.

 

.

 

John and I chose seats together at a smaller worktable near the back of the classroom, ensuring that nobody would sit too close to us. We sat, both still grinning like lunatics, and went about reorganizing our items, including the third tote bag that Sherlock had dropped as he disappeared. I helped John get his hoop ready, and kept my eye on him to make sure he didn't need any hands-on help while the teacher explained the techniques. Just as the lecture was getting started, a text came in on John's mobile.

**Successfully entered conservation wing. Sparse cameras. -SH**

John slowly pecked out a response.  
**For God's sake, just don't get caught. -JW**

We quickly determined that having our phones lying on the table in front of us was a bad idea; the vibrations of the notifications were amplified by the hard surface, and that first message had already earned us a few looks from other students. Thinking quickly, I grabbed Sherlock's emptied tote bag, folded it, and placed it on the table underneath both of our devices, leaving them where either of us could see them easily. "There," I whispered, "that should be better."

"Sorry, it'll probably be more distraction than you're used to, today," John murmured back.

I smiled. "It's okay, I can actually stitch fine with distractions, at least this kind. I just don't want us getting kicked out of class."

 

.

 

**Brushing up on my courtly bows, this is fun. Have you been on this tour? -GL**

**No, I was otherwise occupied most of the last few weeks... ;) *A***

**Well, you really should be sure and see it. You'd love it for the tapestries alone. -GL**

**I'd have liked to go with you, but now you've already been! *A***

**I don't think I'd mind touring this twice! It's really nice. And seeing all the staff in their historical costumes is brilliant. -GL**

 

.

 

**They make up for the lack of cameras by doing a regular sweep on foot. Barely missed being seen entering the conservators' storage area. All clear shortly. -SH**

**You do realise, even close as we all are, there's not much any of us can do to help you out? BE CAREFUL. -JW**

**Of course I realise, John. I've planned it out. You have nothing to worry about. -SH**

 

.

 

The next distraction came to my phone as I was threading a new needle. This time there was a photo of an oil painting attached.

**(photo2209.jpg) Look at this, I think I may've found an old relative of mine! -GL**

I turned the phone towards John, and we shared a disbelieving grin before I typed out my reply.  
**You're not kidding, geez! You could be brothers. Love the ruff, not fond of the hair though. I didn't realize buzz cuts were a thing back then! *A***

**Gotcha, no buzz cuts. Preference noted. ;-) -GL**

I smiled at that, but it faded a bit as I thought, _I won't be around next time he needs a haircut, anyway._ Frowning, I bent my head back over my work.

 

.

 

**In my search of the storage area, I've located two suspicious knives. I've pocketed them; with tests I should be able to prove forgery. -SH**

**That's assuming they are forgeries. Otherwise you're just trespassing AND stealing. -JW**

**Don't be a stick in the mud. -SH**

 

.

 

**I've located the workroom where the arms are restored, two of the three conservators are already working. -SH**

**OK. -JW**  
John glanced over at me and shrugged. "I don't know, what do you say to that?"

 

.

 

**I was able to access the main work area, while the staff were getting tea. I've hidden in a large cabinet with a view to the room, now to wait. -SH**

John gestured vaguely at the table with his needle. "Look at this, now Sherlock's hiding in a cupboard. While I stitch little flowers. Could this day be more surreal?"

"I'm sure it _could_. Besides, you didn't have to pick the flower chart. Why didn't you choose the geometric design?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson will like this one much better," John answered, distractedly. He checked his chart and continued working.

 

.

 

 **(photo2210.jpg) Wish you were here... -GL**  
This photo was taken at arm's length, and showed Greg grinning cheekily with an incredibly ornate canopied bed in the background.

**You know John's sitting right here. Stop being naughty. :) *A***

"It's nice to see him happy," was John's only comment, though he said it with a smirk.

 

.

 

**I believe I can rule out the first two; Rogers has tremors and Freeman is a dolt. Pattinson should be arriving to work around lunchtime, per their conversation. -SH**

**That's progress at least. Unless one of them is in on it with Pattinson? -JW**

**I suppose it's possible, the artisan himself may not be the one making the final switch. Though I think you would doubt it if you were to see these two. -SH**

**I'll take your word on that then. -JW**

 

.

 

**I wish I hadn't taken my opportunity to sneak in here so early in the day. Unless they both leave the room together, I'll be stuck here at least 'til lunch. -SH**

 

.

 

**Being trapped in a cupboard is boring. Is your needlework class boring? -SH**

**Not particularly. Especially since I keep getting texts every few stitches I take. Thank god I put this thing on silent. -JW**

 

.

 

**Sherlock's started texting me random facts about the palace gardens. Is he bothering you, too? -GL**

**No, he's focusing solely on John as you might expect; I think now he's attempting to give us a little time to actually stitch between messages. :) *A***

**Ah. Shouldn't he be more occupied with his investigation than with giving tour guide details? -GL**

**He's hiding in a cabinet right now waiting for a suspect to arrive. Thinks he'll be stuck there thru lunch. I'd be looking for things to distract me too. *A***

**Well, I suppose I can't complain. I asked to be here. ;-) The gardens are quite nice, maybe after class you and I can take a walk through the maze? -GL**

 

.

 

It was nearing the lunch break, and the whole class was well into the swing of their projects. I was enjoying the rhythm of the simple patterns and was moving along quickly, but John had gotten a nasty tangle in the thread at the back of his work, and was trying to tease it out with his fingernails and a needle. When his phone vibrated yet again, he grunted. "Just tell me if it's something important. I'll look in a minute, but Sherlock can _wait_ 'til I get this knot out!"

I nodded, sympathetic to the plight of tangling threads, and leaned over to see the phone.

**John, I've been trying to find a way to tell you something for weeks. Here in the dark, it's difficult to think of anything but finally breaching the topic. -SH**

My jaw dropped open and I glanced quickly over at John, who was oblivious. A second text followed the first, and then a third within seconds:

**I find that the tension between us lately is exacerbated by my difficulty coping with a realisation I've made regarding my feelings towards you. -SH**

**I understand you likely don't reciprocate; I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. I hope we may salvage our friendship, despite my overwhelming sentiment. -SH**

"Three texts? Shit, there's a problem isn't there," John muttered, still picking determinedly at his knot, his tongue poking between his lips.

I cleared my throat, my face reddening. "Uh, no, no problem. But—here. I'll fix your knot, you'll want the phone..." I snatched John's needlework from his hands just as he looked up at me in consternation.

"All right, what is it now—" John's words cut off abruptly as he picked up the phone and read. He brought the device closer to his eyes, obviously reading the texts a second time, then a third. I was trying very hard to focus on the threads in my hands, knowing I should be giving John a bit of privacy on this, but I couldn't stop looking from the corner of my eye; I found myself entranced by the series of shifting emotions in his face.

After the silence stretched almost to a minute, I spoke softly. "Um, John, if you don't text him back he might draw his own conclusion?"

John's eyes widened and his arms jerked involuntarily. With a glance up at me, he licked his lips nervously and began to peck out a response, turning away slightly. Feeling as if I were intruding on a very private moment, I faced forward in my chair and began working at John's tangled threads with shaking fingers. As I worked, I was aware of a series of messages being sent back and forth; the messaging continued for a few more minutes after I returned John's hoop to the table and picked up my own work.

Finally, John gently replaced his phone on the bag. The screen was dark when I glanced over; I watched him pick his embroidery back up with hands that trembled a little bit.

 

\-----

 

The class broke for lunch at twelve thirty, and John was uncharacteristically quiet on the way over to the Palace's Tiltyard Cafe. Greg waved enthusiastically from a table he'd saved for us. "Cheers! Hope you don't mind, I was here a bit early so I took the liberty of ordering the lunch special for you both. More time to talk that way. How's your class coming?"

John smiled, but it was forced, and his eyes kept drifting away from us. "Well as I could have expected. You'd have to ask Anna, but I don't think I'm doing too badly with it."

"Oh, he's not bad at all! He picked up on the Holbein logistics right away. Practically a natural." As I chatted lightly about the teacher, and described the way we'd had to arrange our mobiles on the work surface, I caught Greg's eyes along with his hand under the table and worked on a silent conversation. Ever perceptive, Greg had noticed right away that something was off; I willed him with my expression not to question John on it yet. A slight nod told me he'd understood, and I breathed a little sigh of relief. He squeezed my hand and returned a look that said, _Oh, but we WILL talk about this later,_ and I deliberately blinked in assent.

"Hey, you two lovebirds planning on staring at each other the whole hour?" John seemed to be coming back to his usual self a bit, though he was plainly misinterpreting the looks Greg and I were sharing. _Fine by me,_ I thought, reclaiming my hand and picking up my sandwich.

Greg took the prompt to change the subject, this time asking for a play-by-play on Sherlock's ducking the security line. John was happy to oblige, and started describing his distraction in detail; I stole a moment to surreptitiously pull my phone out on my lap.  
**Everything all right? *A***

"So every bit of the stuff in all three bags was all over the hallway. It must have spread fifteen metres, some of it. The looks on the guards' faces were classic," John continued, chuckling.

Greg looked suitably impressed. "Didn't realise you had such a dramatic flair, mate."

"You should have heard him apologize to me like I was a stranger, all the way down the hall! Seriously, John, have you got acting experience?" I felt a buzz in my lap as I asked the question, and glanced down.

**I have done my best to build a bridge. It remains to see if it shall be crossed. -SH**

John was saying, "Well, there was an acting troupe in uni, I admit I had a part here and there!" He sketched a flourished half-bow in his seat, eliciting a laugh from us both.

The conversation continued in a similar vein for a few minutes while we ate, until John stood. "Thanks for buying us lunch, Greg, but now I'm craving something sweet. Think I'll go back to the line and grab a packet of biscuits."

Greg nodded and stood up himself. "All right, I'm off to the drinks end for a refill. Fancy one too, love?"

I nodded, smiling, and took the moment alone at the table to type out a new message to Sherlock.  
**Well, I'm impressed with you. I admit I wasn't sure how John had taken it, though; it was a strange reaction. Hence my concern. *A***

I was just popping the last of my packet of crisps into my mouth, when I received another message:

**I will ask you more about that reac**

I found myself rising to my feet, instinctively alarmed at the interrupted message. Looking up, I searched out my companion, on his way back from the beverage area of the cafeteria. "Greg?"

His eyes widened as he saw me, and he reached our table in just a few more long strides. "What's wrong?"

"It's not like Sherlock to stop and send a text mid-word, is it? I've got a bad feeling..."

Greg frowned, unconsciously straightening his posture. "No, that's not like him." He craned his neck to look across the crowded space. "Where's John got off to?"

"Umm...There. Just to the far end of the line," I pointed. "Should we wave him over?"

"Let's go his way. It's closer the door." Greg set the drinks down and ushered me away from the table. The change in him was palpable; with every step we took across the room, he seemed less Greg and more Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John turned from the cashier just as we reached him, and his face instantly made itself over, too, in reaction to the grim set of Greg's mouth. "What's going on?"

"Not sure yet," Greg answered, "but not likely anything too good. Anna got a text from Sherlock that stopped in the middle of a word. Come on, if we don't hear in three minutes I'm gonna flash my badge at security."

John shoved the biscuit package into his pocket and kicked himself into motion along with us.

I clutched my phone in my hand as we strode across the courtyard, and asked anxiously, "It could be nothing, right? I mean, maybe I'm overreacting?"

At that moment Greg's phone trilled loudly in the still air. Coming to a halt, he pulled it from his jacket's breast pocket and answered in a clipped tone. "Lestrade...You what?" He glanced at us, and suddenly we were rushing to follow as he broke into a jog across the rest of the square. "Shit, Sherlock, you're all right though? Yeah, on our way, give us a minute!" Hanging up, he called over his shoulder, "John, you'd best call Mycroft. I think we may need an extraction...!"

 

.

 

Minutes later, Greg had shown credentials to the head of Palace security, and the three of us were escorted to a private office; I was brought along purely because Greg and John wouldn't let me out of their sight, but I was made by the officials to wait in the hallway outside the security room. _Best not to draw attention to myself, in case they change their mind about my involvement,_ I told myself nervously, doing my best to shrink into the walls and look harmless. A door opened on the other end of the hall, and Sherlock was dragged roughly past me into the office by two angry guards. His face sported bruises and a split lip, and his jumper was torn. For all that, he looked fairly calm, I thought. I found that I was able to hear most of the ensuing conversation from outside, though the quieter parts were muffled.

"All right then," growled Darrow, the director of security, "would someone here like to tell me who all of you are, and why a member of my staff is currently awaiting the ambulance?"

I heard Greg making introductions and explaining his position with the Met, and then Sherlock started detailing his suspicions about Pattinson, and the actions he had taken in order to prove them. This took a minute or two, with occasional disbelieving outbursts from the official.

I was straining to hear, but a lot of it was too quiet—until John's voice broke in. "For God's sake! You're bleeding!"

"Yes," snapped Sherlock, "as I was just about to get to, Pattinson opened the cupboard and discovered me. He was much more violent than I had expected. I was left with no choice but to defend myself with the forged knives I'd pocketed, when he came at me with the shortsword."

"A sword?! Would one of you lot get me some damn BANDAGES!"

Greg chimed in. "He's a doctor! Just GO!"

The office door burst open and Bad-Eye rushed out, looking confused and harried. I was on his left side, though, so he didn't really notice me. He bustled through the door at the far end of the hallway, just as the door on the near end opened and two strangers entered, unaccompanied by security personnel: a tall ginger-haired man in a polished suit, and an attractive woman walking with her eyes glued to a mobile phone. The woman stationed herself by the wall and continued fiddling with her phone, never looking up. 

The man gave me a brief nod as he strode past, but didn't address me; instead he went straight to the office and walked in without knocking. "Good afternoon, Mr. Darrow."

"Sorry, have we met? What are you doing in my office?"

"I am here with authority to take this messy, and frankly appallingly attired, _situation_ from your hands immediately, Mr. Darrow." The tall man's voice was both lilting and clipped. "Is he terribly injured, Doctor Watson?"

"He'll live long enough for me to kick his arse for this," I heard John growl.

"I can't believe you called him," Sherlock said, in a condescending tone. "Mycroft, haven't you anything better to do than drive across the city to watch me bleed?"

"While that does rate as a mildly amusing pastime, you well know it is not the sole reason for my presence. As always, the duty of cleaning up your mess falls to me."

 _So that's Mycroft, huh?_ I mused, studying the woman more curiously from the corner of my eye. She seemed completely unconcerned.

The guard returned shortly bearing a first-aid kit, and the next few minutes sounded like a jumble from my position in the hallway. There were grumblings and remonstrations from John and Sherlock, presumably the latter being ministered to by the former; at the same time, more official details were being hashed out between Mycroft and the Palace personnel.

Eventually the door opened again and Greg emerged, looking a bit wrung out. He turned his head, seeing me waiting, and his face brightened. "Anna, sweet, sorry to keep you from your class."

"My class? God, Greg, all this going on and you're worried about my _class?_ Like I wouldn't want to be here, if there was even a slight chance I could be of use." I gave a gentle smack to his arm, then joined my hand with his as he leaned against the wall next to me. The woman across the hall glanced up at us appraisingly, then returned her attention to her device.

Greg chuckled. "Can't keep you away from anything that matters. One of the many reasons I love you," he said, tilting his head back against the wall with a tired smile.

My breath caught slightly and I had to look away. I'd heard the word from him as an endearment many times, of course, but this was the first he'd said it straight out—and so casually, too; as if it were a basic and unquestioned fact of life. The thought warmed the pit of my belly but also set my mind racing. I hadn't given the idea of "love" a lot of space in my thoughts, even after making the leap into sleeping with Greg. _I'm going to have to leave, and we both know it,_ I thought, still hesitating to even say the words in my own head for fear they would be true. I squeezed Greg's hand but didn't say anything; thankfully, his comment had been so casual he didn't seem to be hanging on me for a reply.

Just then, the office door opened again; this time, Mr. Darrow and his staff led everyone out, the procession ending with Mycroft, and a final guard who locked the office behind him. Sherlock was being half-supported on John's shoulder as they walked out, and Greg and I fell into step behind them.

"And the knives? I still require them for testing," Sherlock imperiously reminded Darrow.

The portly man scowled over his shoulder. "Highly irregular! Jones, you had them collected, didn't you? Fine, call Franklin and have him run them over here. Tell him to hurry up with it, mind you, I want these troublemakers out of the Palace right away!"

 

.

 

Once Sherlock's evidence had been retrieved, Mycroft Holmes and his assistant led our ragtag group out of the Palace, and ushered us into waiting black cars. We split between the two vehicles; Sherlock practically pouted as John made him take the same car as Mycroft, and Greg and I rode in the second car with the unruffled assistant. She showed no sign of paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

"Well, that's all turned out, then, eh?" Greg sighed as the car got moving.

"I suppose so...What about the other guy? Pattinson, wasn't it?"

"They've taken him to hospital. From what Sherlock says, it's a stab wound to the gut and a few deep wounds on his arms; Sherlock insists he was careful not to wound the guy mortally, so I guess there's that."

I snorted. "He's being attacked with a sword—if I heard that right?—and he's being careful of the guy. That's...almost sweet."

"Sweet!" Greg shook his head, grinning, and leaned over to peck me on the cheek. "Only you, love."

"I'll take that as a compliment, I think," I smiled back at him. "Where are we off to now, anyway? I didn't hear anyone say."

"Well, John and Sherlock are going straight to St. Bartholomew's—there's a lab there Sherlock uses, and he's keen to get a close look at those knives. Also John said something about needing to put in some stitches."

I blinked and shook off a surreal mental image of John making little blackwork flower sutures on Sherlock's side. "Okay, and you and me?"

Greg shrugged. "I don't have to be anywhere else, and Barts is close enough to home that it's no problem getting on from there. I didn't want to treat Mycroft's drivers as a cab service. Besides..."

I looked over at him. "Besides?"

"Ah, well," Greg said, turning slightly pink at the ears, "I sort of promised my friend, Molly...that if there was ever a chance, I'd bring you by to meet her. Thought maybe we could get a coffee together."

"Oh!" _Sherlock mentioned her, I remember._ "Sure, I'd like that, Greg."

"Great!" He still looked a little embarrassed. "You know how it is, Molly's a sweet girl, she's been worrying over me ever since I split for good with Tracy, and most especially after Sherlock was gone. She was starting to make noises back in May about fixing me up with one of the girls in her crochet club..."

I laughed. "You make it sound as if you just barely escaped with your life or something! She sounds nice, Greg, I'm happy to meet friends of yours."

 

\-----

 

When we arrived at the hospital, Sherlock and John went on ahead, but Greg and I waited on the sidewalk for the black cars to pull away. "I texted Molly that we were on our way over, she said she'd meet us over at the Criterion," he explained. His eyes followed the consulting detective and his companion as they entered the building; it was clear from a distance that they were having some kind of agitated discussion on their way in. Greg frowned a little and turned to me. "So. About earlier. There was something up, before all that craziness. What is it I don't know?"

I sighed a little, and took his arm as we turned to walk. "Well, basically, a little while before lunch Sherlock decided to finally confess his feelings for John."

"He—oh. Ohh!" Greg exclaimed, as the weight of it sank in. "So they—"

"I don't know! It's only pure chance that I saw the first messages before John did. Obviously I wasn't privy to the whole conversation. And I can't figure out John's reaction, it's got me stumped. Gosh, I hope I haven't messed things up..."

Greg asked, "You? What did you do?"

I shrugged. "I seriously doubt that Sherlock would've got the idea to state things that plainly if we hadn't had the talk we had the other day." Seeing his amazed expression, I added, "I was just trying to help him see things from the perspective of someone outside his circle. He'd been so upset when he came to your flat; when I got a few opportunities to talk to him privately, I took them, that's all."

Greg was still looking at me as if I'd grown a second head—possibly made of gold—as he opened the door to the coffee shop for me. "You actually got Sherlock Holmes to talk about his feelings. Honestly."

I laughed, "Don't go spreading it around that he has them, now, or you'll get me in trouble!"

"My god, Anna, you amaze me more every day," he said, warmly. Turning, he waved and led the way over to a high table in the corner. "Molly! Meet the incredible Anna Clark; Anna, this is my dear friend Molly Hooper."

I rolled my eyes a bit at the effusive 'incredible', and shook hands with the short, delicate woman at the table; she had longer hair than me, and was dressed in a pink jumper and khaki slacks. "It's good to meet you, Molly!"

"Likewise, I'm sure!" she said, returning a chipper smile.

 

.

 

Our conversation with Molly was light and pleasant. After discussing my favorite experiences in London so far, and finding out all about Molly's boyfriend's brother who was attending college in Boston, we moved on to more serious talk about the forgery case.

Greg told us, "Those knives—I think Sherlock suspects there's something more serious going on with them than he originally thought."

"That makes sense," I mused, sipping my coffee. "I mean, that guy got awfully violent, right? I wouldn't have expected that type of criminal to be attacking someone with a sword just for being found in the room unexpectedly. Not that I know that much about criminals really, but you know."

Greg nodded. "No, I know what you mean."

"Of course, maybe it was something Sherlock said that made the forger more violent?" Molly's cheeks took on a hint of pink as she spoke. "I mean. He's lovely, but um, he does lack tact, a bit."

"I'll second that," I agreed, chuckling. "Maybe he tried to deduce the guy's sex life!" Seeing Molly's expression change at that, I tilted my head and said, "Well, looks like you and I have _that_ in common, huh?"

She fiddled with the paper sleeve on her cup. "He, um, hasn't been so bad, lately. To me. Not since I've been with Simon anyway. I think it's been his way of thanking me? Maybe? For helping him."

Greg shrugged. "Who even knows, with him? But he should be pretty thankful, yeh? Without your help, he might have had to _actually_ kill himself three years ago."

Molly ducked her head shyly. "Goodness, I'm just glad you all forgave me for my part in staging that. I thought John would never speak to me again, for a while!" Glancing at her phone, she continued, "Oh, look at the time. I really should be getting back."

 

.

 

The three of us walked together back to the hospital, and followed Molly downstairs into the laboratory area, chatting all the way. Molly was just shrugging on her lab coat and promising me a look inside the morgue—I had admitted to a certain morbid curiosity—as we came to the door, only to run head-on into John, who was striding out into the hallway.

"Oof! Sorry, ladies, just off to fetch a razor blade for Sherlock," John said, straightening his cardigan.

"Oh, did you check the blue cabinet? There's usually some in there, they might have just got shoved to the back." Molly walked into the lab and crouched behind Sherlock's back to peer into the bottom shelves of the cabinet.

"You've changed your shirt," Greg commented, as he walked in and sat on a stool.

"Mm. Obviously," Sherlock muttered, not raising his eyes from the microscope.

John followed us back in from the hall, postponing his errand to see if Molly found what Sherlock needed, and I claimed a stool off to Greg's side. "Oh, John, you're still working on your piece," I exclaimed, peering down at the embroidery hoop he'd left on the table.

"Yeah, why not? It was fun, and we didn't get to go back to the class." John shrugged, smiling. "Besides, if I'm to give it as a Christmas gift, I'll need to actually get it done, right? I'm hoping you'll show me the best way to finish and frame it."

Just as I started to answer, Sherlock stood suddenly and stepped back from his seat. At the same moment, Molly rose from her kneeling position, having finished quietly retrieving the supplies—and the two collided violently, the knife Sherlock held flying off to the side of the room and bouncing on the floor.

"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry Sherlock," Molly stammered, hurriedly picking up the wrapped razor blades scattered under the table.

"No matter," Sherlock muttered, tugging at his shirt and regaining his composure. He stooped elegantly to pick up the fallen knife. "I suppose there's no harm, since I've already determined this is in fact a forgery—oh!"

"Oh?" John prompted, looking up from his embroidery.

Sherlock stood and whipped around to the table so quickly that he nearly knocked into Molly all over again, just barely sidestepping her in a graceful dodge. "The hilt! The hilt has split open from the impact! This is wholly unexpected!" He bent over the knife and pulled a magnifying lens closer, subsiding into excited muttering under his breath.

Molly came quickly around to our side of the table, where she might be safe from further sudden movements. Setting the box of razor blades down near John, she turned to us and said breathily, "I'm going to. Um. I'll be over in the morgue, if you need me for anything. All right? Anna, it was nice to meet you. I could show you around another day, maybe?"

"Sure," I replied with a smile, "in fact—Greg, were we planning something this week?"

Greg turned from watching Sherlock work. "Oh, right! Yeah, it's Anna's birthday on Tuesday, everyone. I was thinking we could all meet at Angelo's, say, seven thirty?"

"A microchip!" The shout from Sherlock drowned out John and Molly's noises of agreement. "What possible purpose could it serve? Oh, this is incredible!"

 

\-----

 

I spent the next few days mostly on my own while Greg worked. I'd gotten the little beginner's blackwork chart done Saturday evening, and still felt like I wanted more play in the technique. An idea struck me Sunday morning, and after seeing Greg off—vigorously—I pulled out graph paper and a scratchpad, eventually transferring my drawing to new fabric. My design was a small vignette suggesting a nature scene, done with outlines stitched in heavy stem stitch, and delicate geometric fill patterns to create shading. The piece went quickly, since I didn't have much distraction; by Tuesday morning I was already cleaning and ironing it. I stopped into the framing shop at three, picking up my two custom orders, and was able to get the third piece fitted in a simple frame with only a few hours' wait. Finally, I made my way with my wrapped parcels over towards the address Greg had given me for Angelo's restaurant.

John was standing out on the sidewalk when I approached, and he greeted me with a hug. "Happy birthday, Anna! Greg's just texted me, he's on his way from work right now. Shouldn't be too long." He opened the door and ushered me in to our table. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were already seated together, chatting about yarn choices for jumpers; Sherlock presided silently at the far end of the table. _I'm actually surprised he came,_ I thought, sitting down and joining in the conversation with a smile. When John sat down, I noticed that he and Sherlock had chosen opposite ends of the table; it made me curious. _Trying to be far apart, or just taking seats with the best perspective to everyone else?_ Try as I might, I couldn't quite determine what was going on with them. They both seemed to be acting fairly normally, and John seemed to be in a good mood, but since Sherlock was apparently not inclined to speak with anyone, it was hard to tell.

Before too long the table was visited by Angelo, a jovial man with a graying ponytail, who introduced himself to me effusively and poured me a glass of wine. As the restaurateur walked away I heard him making another excited greeting, and recognized Greg's voice approaching behind me. I turned in my seat to be confronted with a large bouquet of roses. "Oh," I exclaimed, "they're beautiful! You shouldn't have!"

Greg leaned over and kissed me soundly, earning us a few titillated noises from the ladies at the table. "Not every day you hit a milestone birthday, love. I want to make sure it's special for you." He sat down next to me, grinning as I blushed.

"Ooh, lovey, don't be embarrassed," Mrs. Hudson chided fondly. "Be glad of the attention you still get at forty—nobody made such a fuss over me when I turned seventy!"

"And that is a terrible oversight, which we shall certainly rectify when you get to eighty," John commented, patting her hand. "Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"Hm? Yes, of course." Sherlock was obviously distracted in his own thoughts.

Greg turned to John and indicated the detective with his thumb. "He still hasn't figured out those microchips?"

"Not quite. He hasn't hit on the right frequency to trigger them to do anything," John answered, shrugging.

"And what about the suspect? Any information out of him?"

John tilted his head and pursed his lips. "Ah, about that..."

Sherlock finally spoke. "According to Mycroft's reports, there was a mishap in the hospital. The wounds I inflicted upon Pattinson were not fatal, but a surgeon nicked his small intestine and he's gone into a coma since. Highly disappointing," he explained with a frown, and once more lapsed into thoughtful silence.

Angelo brought a serving platter to our table with a flourish. "House special calamari, for everyone, enjoy!"

 

.

 

At the end of the delicious meal, we were presented with dessert wine and an impressive chocolate cake, covered in fresh berries and a dusting of icing sugar—Sherlock hadn't deigned to eat any dinner, but he did accept a piece of cake, much to Angelo's delight. I laughed as the group sang to me, and then there were gifts to be opened. Mrs. Hudson beamed as I tore the paper off of a lush hand-knitted scarf; Molly gifted me with a little assortment package of fine teas; John had picked out a dozen skeins of the beautiful overdyed silk thread I'd drooled over when we'd gone shopping together. Sherlock reached into his breast pocket and passed me a rich leather-bound pocket journal with gold leaf edges. His elegant scrawl marked the overleaf page: "Anna. Many happy returns. Sherlock Holmes." Touched and incredibly surprised, I ran my fingers over the embossed cover. "Thank you—that's beautiful, Sherlock! And thank you all, this is all so wonderful," I gushed happily.

"Just one more, love," murmured Greg, close to my ear. He slipped a little box into my hand.

I opened it to find a silver bracelet, loaded with about fifteen delicate dangling charms. "Greg! Oh, this is lovely!"

He smiled and helped me fasten it, as he pointed out some of the little charms he'd chosen. "Look, there's Hampton Court Palace—saw the charm in their little shop, couldn't resist—that one's a cup of tea—there's a lotus flower."

"Needle and thread, opal for my birthstone, a tiny crutch—that's _adorable_ —Oh! Ma'at's feather!" I looked up and met his eyes, smiling. "You certainly put a lot of thought into this, Greg. Thank you—oh, that reminds me; grab that bag down by your feet?" When he handed it over to me, I pulled out the parcels and passed them around, beaming. "I can never stand being the only one with things to open. Here, Greg—this one's for you John—and yours, Sherlock."

The men accepted their gifts and began to open them, while I leaned across the table to let Molly and Mrs. Hudson admire my bracelet. Greg was first to exclaim over his Egyptian-themed Or Nué, matted deeply in complementary colors of reed-textured paper.

"Oh, it's even more beautiful in its frame! I can't wait to hang it up. Thanks Anna," he said, catching me in a hug as I sat back down.

Sherlock was tilting his shadowbox frame back and forth, letting the goldwork brooch within catch the light at different angles. I'd had it mounted on a cushioned background of deep violet velvet, so that it almost gave the effect of an entomological specimen. "It's highly stylised, but I believe the species of bee represented would be Apis mellifera," he stated, approvingly. "Thank you, Anna." He looked up, passing his frame across the table. "Look at this, John."

John looked up from where he was studying his gift. "This isn't the blackwork piece you worked on in class! It's a much more interesting design, I like it a lot." He accepted Sherlock's framed bee and passed his frame to Sherlock in return. "Where did you come up with the design? I don't think I've ever seen an embroidery of a rope bridge between two cliff faces."

I looked over and met Sherlock's wide eyes over the frame in his hands. "The idea just came to me. It seemed fitting," I said, with a little shrug.

 

.

 

Later, the cab ride home was suffused with the scent of the roses in my lap. Greg watched me as I went back around my bracelet, fingering and studying each charm lovingly. _A rose, the London Eye, a thimble._ "This second heart, with the pearl—that's your birthstone?" I asked, touching the charm in question.

Greg nodded. "Did you open the locket?"

"Not yet." I worked my thumbnail into the seam of the little rectangular charm, and opened it to see a tiny photo—Greg posing with me in front of the Palace. "Wow, I can't believe you got that printed out so small!"

"Had a mate help me in the photo lab at the Yard. Oh, that next one's my favorite," he pointed out, smiling. I looked at the tiny moveable disc, engraved I OV O. After a second, I realized the other side said L E Y U; when I spun the disc on its axis it showed the message I LOVE YOU.

"Greg. I'll treasure this forever. Thank you," I said, squeezing his hand. "I—I think we need to talk about where we're going."

"We're going back to my flat," he joked, "and look, we're here. No—I know what you mean. Just, let's get inside?"

We got out of the cab and made our way in; Greg first went into the kitchen and found a vase to fill with water for my flowers. "All right," he said seriously, sitting down on the sofa with me. "Tell me what you're thinking."

 _Say it, just say it, you know it's true,_ I implored myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Greg...I am in love with you. I love you. But—"

"But?" His voice was gentle and quiet, and I still couldn't bring myself to look at him.

"But you know I have to leave. I'm not _allowed_ to stay in the country, even if I want to—I only have a few weeks left." My voice shook a little as I said it.

"I know, love." I felt Greg's palm come to rest tentatively against the side of my face. "Don't think I haven't tried to keep that in mind. I understand the visa laws. I just got addicted to having you near me, Anna. You make _everything_ about my life better. And if you love me too...I don't want to end this just because you have to go."

"So, what do we do?" I asked, looking up finally to meet his chocolate eyes.

He smiled and kissed me briefly, taking my hand in both of his. "The way I see it, there are a few options...for one, it's possible to apply to extend your visa by a maximum of three months. If I'm remembering right when you said you flew in, you'd be up against that application deadline this week. But I don't like that idea much."

"Because I'd still have to leave at the end of it?"

"That, yeah, and also the holidays! You've got a home to go back to, and family that misses you; I know you're expected back. I won't have your Mum seeing me as the man who stole you away."

"Oh." _He's worrying about my mom?_ I felt a little tingly, and although my mind was racing, my thoughts were refusing to put themselves together in any logical fashion. "So you're saying I should go home when I originally planned...and then what?"

"Well, for starters, I've got a fair bit of travel bonus saved up. I wouldn't mind a break, I haven't taken a good long holiday in a few years now. Would you be opposed to me visiting you, in a few months?"

The idea startled a gasping laugh out of me. "Seriously? You want to come stay in Ohio with me? Of course you can, but it won't be exciting."

"Who needs exciting?" He made a face. "I think I could use a rest from murder, and crime scenes, and Sherlock's antics, yeh? And, it's the 'with you' part I'm really after, love." He threw an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, and we snuggled up together with my cheek against his chest.

We were quiet for a time, while I mulled over the idea of showing DI Lestrade my hometown and introducing him to my family. Eventually I tilted my head up to look at him. "So you think we can do this. Have a relationship."

"I think I would be a complete bleeding idiot not to try," Greg murmured.

 

\-----

 

The next morning, I received a text message less than an hour after Greg left for Scotland Yard.

**Do you have plans for the day? -SH**

**It's 6:30 am, I hadn't given it much thought. I'm pretty sure my plans included sleeping. *A***

**I know you're awake, Lestrade is at work today and you have been seeing him off without fail for the past week. -SH**

**Fine, I concede the point. Of course you somehow know that. What is it you want? *A***

**Meet me at Yardley's coffee shop at 8:30; dress comfortably for tourism activities. Bring your camera. -SH**

**That's all I get?? *A***

**Have faith. -SH**

 

.

 

Baffled, I obeyed Sherlock's request, arriving at the specified coffee shop right on time. I picked out the familiar tall figure right away, facing the wall in the back, wearing the violet silk shirt that had informed my choice of matting velvet. I made my way to take the seat across from him with a brisk nod. "So, good morning Sherlock. Am I allowed to know what's going on, now? Whatever this is, it seems very odd to me."

Sherlock looked up from his phone, gesturing to the large coffee and cheese pastry already waiting on the table between us. "It is my understanding that in your time here, you have not yet visited the Tower of London."

I took the coffee, sipping it to find that Sherlock had inexplicably already sweetened and lightened it to my tastes, and narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "No I haven't, but since when do you care what sightseeing I've done—wait, this is about your dagger?"

"I have secured two passes into the private collection rooms at the Tower, through Mycroft's assistance. This is 'about' a number of things, Anna, not least of which being that your presence will undoubtedly annoy my dear brother to no end."

I raised an eyebrow. "So, I take it John couldn't go with you."

"No," he huffed, showing a little of the petulant temper I'd come to expect from Sherlock Holmes. "He was needed at the surgery all day today, he had promised Sarah he would fill in for someone and couldn't back out."

"At least this is beginning to make sense now," I commented, smiling wryly. "Though I would have expected you'd rather just go on your own...unless there's something more you want from me?"

"Since my return I find myself...less pleased by solitude in general," Sherlock admitted. He continued reluctantly, "I find you to be a surprisingly competent conversational partner, all things considered; without the highly preferable option of John's company, you will be more than capable of observing and commenting upon my work."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" I threw the detective a grin as I finished off my pastry. _Even if I'm to be a substitute echo chamber, offering him praise at the appropriate moments—that rates pretty high in his little world, doesn't it?_

"So. Shall we be off?" Sherlock stood abruptly, as if the continued politeness was wearing thin already.

I snapped the plastic lid onto my half-full coffee and stood. "Lead on, Mr. Holmes."

 

.

 

The morning air carried a chill, and I pulled my new purple scarf tighter around me as we walked down the street. After following the detective for a few blocks, I finally commented, "Surely we're not walking all the way to the Tower?"

Sherlock turned his head to look down at me; the wind plastered his mop of dark curls against his face. "I thought we might look into another loose end first. Pattinson's flat is just up this street."

I lost my coordination momentarily and tripped over my own foot.

"Oh, don't worry," Sherlock assured me. "I won't have you go _in_ , Lestrade would never let me hear the end of it. I would have gone by myself before the coffee shop, had I not lost track of time working with my frequency generator."

"Mm." Slightly mollified, I resumed walking. "Still no luck with those chips, huh."

Sherlock's only response was to give a stray pebble a vicious kick ahead of him. Shortly thereafter, he turned and led me up to a drab block of flats. "I should be no longer than ten minutes. Wait here, l'll text if I have any problems," he instructed, before disappearing into the small lobby.

I turned and settled on the stoop to wait. Pulling out my phone to check the time, I decided it would be prudent to give Greg some idea of my whereabouts.  
**How's your morning going? Mine's gotten interesting. *A***

**All right here. Interesting how? -GL**

**Promise not to freak out, but I'm actually out sightseeing with Sherlock... *A***

**??? What sights? -GL**

**Tower of London...with a brief stopover at a coma patient's flat. NO, I'm not inside. *A***

My phone rang seconds later, just as I expected. "Hi sweetie," I answered in a cheerful tone.

"Darling, you do realise you're basically reporting Sherlock on a B&E? Not that I mind."

I made sure my voice was low enough not to carry. "He'll be done with whatever it is in a couple minutes. And I profess to no knowledge about why he might be here. Heck, I don't even know what street I'm on."

"All right, no need to get cheeky," Greg said, chuckling. "What's this about the Tower, then?"

"The dagger that started this whole thing has its doppelganger in a private exhibit there. Sherlock got two passes through Mycroft to get in and see it. And before you ask, John had to work and he didn't want to go alone."

"Well. You know my general feelings about Sherlock's plans, love. I can't say I adore you running about the city alone with him...But I do appreciate that you let me know." Greg's voice was gruff but not overly worried sounding.

That piqued my curiosity. "I probably should stop while I'm ahead, but I can't help myself: why don't you sound as concerned now as you did a couple weeks ago?"

There was a brief silence while Greg considered his answer. "This won't make sense probably...but it's the gift he gave you last night, " he said slowly, cautiously, as if trying to work out his thoughts by saying them.

"Nope, you're right, that doesn't make sense."

"Sherlock's not supremely careful about bystanders, as far as it goes, and oft-times 'normal' people don't register right away with him. One of the first big cases I worked with the man, a sergeant was shot in the leg while the criminal was trying to get away, and it was like he didn't even notice. But there came a day I knew that he counted me different. Like he counts Mrs. Hudson different. And John...Well, ahem, less than John I s'pose."

I glanced behind me at the still-closed lobby door. "And last night, you think...?"

"Yeah, I actually do." He sounded proud, and maybe a bit choked up. "So yeah. Be careful, of course, and let me know straight away if anything happens. But you're smart and capable, and I know that Mycroft knows what you two are up to, and I know Sherlock has you under his wing, so. Enjoy seeing the Tower, love."

I gave a happy little sigh. "I love you, Greg."

"Love you too, Anna. Talk to you soon," he murmured, then disconnected.

 

.

 

It was only a few more minutes before Sherlock emerged, looking energized and pleased. "Success, I take it?" I asked, standing and brushing off my jeans.

"Yes! I now have evidence both pointing toward a higher mastermind, and showing that Pattinson was going against that person's direct wishes. This completely allows me to rethink my hypotheses on the whole crime." He was practically skipping as we made our way back toward the main road.

"All right, I almost follow you. But you have to give me just a little more..."

"I'd thought it odd that Pattinson would be selling originals while exhibiting fakes. The explanation is, of course, that he shouldn't have been! I can see, now, that the selling of the artifacts was simply greed on his part, and nothing to do with the reason for the forgeries themselves."

"Which is...?"

"Something to do with these microchips, I imagine. Not much in the flat to tell me about that, sadly. It appears that there was another person involved taking care of the technical aspects, and leaving only the metalwork to this man. In fact, Pattinson may not have been aware that a later phase may have required the original artifacts to be replaced." He flagged down a cab and opened the door for me, giving our destination to the driver.

Seating myself, I chewed on my lip in thought. "Hmm...I'm wondering whether that coma was really an accident, now..."

Sherlock quirked a split-second smile at me. "An apt consideration. And I'm already nearly certain you may be correct. I'll have to visit the hospital to be sure, but that will have to wait until after the Tower."

We rode silently for a few minutes. I studied the detective's static profile from the corner of my eye, idly fingering the charm bracelet on my left wrist.

"So you've checked in with Lestrade, I see," Sherlock noted. "I take it he's less than pleased with me?"

"I doubt _that_ would bother you in the slightest. Actually, we had a nice little conversation. Your breaking and entering was barely touched upon."

"Hm." Sherlock looked conflicted for a second, as if he wanted to comment further, but didn't want to seem too interested.

I took advantage of his off-balance moment to ask. "What's going on now with you and John?"

"Ever the therapist, Anna. Honestly."

"No therapy intended," I retorted. "Where I come from, this is called being nibby."

An eyebrow raised gracefully. "If you must know, there has been a subtle shift in our interactions, but nothing you would call concrete." The _yet_ was clearly audible, though it remained unspoken.

"Oh. But he didn't actually turn you down?"

"No. However, I believe my getting sliced open shortly thereafter put somewhat of a damper on the communicative spirit."

This time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "You don't seem upset."

"Quite the contrary. The current extrapolated trajectory is moderately favorable, and a slow progression suits me."

 

.

 

Sherlock had a brief discussion with the official manning the ticketed entry at the Tower, in which he introduced me as his "assistant", amusing me greatly. Following a short phone call during which I could only assume the British Government issued directives, he and I were escorted to the Medieval Palace area of the grounds, through hallways and up stairs to the private gallery area. We found the exhibit we were looking for near the back wall of a room scattered with exotic items and gilded antiques; a dagger exactly like the one I knew from 221B rested on a shaped and upholstered platform. With an uncomfortable but respectful nod to both of us, the stocky warder went about unlocking and removing the square glass cover on the display, stepping back afterwards to stand at attention nearby.

"Camera now," Sherlock prompted, pulling on a pair of cotton gloves and leaning in close. I obediently turned it on and began taking shots of his manipulation of the artifact.

Watching him indirectly on my LCD screen, I mused out loud, "This area is pretty well hidden away. Who even gets to see these rooms?"

"Mostly special tours, diplomatic envoys and important personages; I believe there are a number of after-hours events each year," Sherlock murmured. He sniffed in frustration. "It's not as if I can open it up here to see the chip. Assuming there is one...!"

"Well, seeing the chip didn't seem very helpful with the others. But this one is in place where it's meant to be, would that make a difference?"

The detective had stepped back slightly, standing still in front of the plinth with his gloved fingertips pressed together at his lips. There was a weighty moment of silence, during which the yeoman warder seemed to be wondering how long we would take; I was just indulging myself with a photo of Sherlock's pensive features, when he suddenly broke into an expression of wonderment. "Where it's _meant_ to be!"

Springing into action, he picked up the dagger once more, beckoning the Beefeater over and peremptorily handing it to him. Sherlock then turned back to the display plinth and began examining it closely. Within seconds he had dislodged the stand and pried off the fabric-covered panel underneath, revealing a large battery pack and an array of small electronics. "Wireless antenna...inductive coil...this is why I couldn't activate the chips! They required the extra power from their displays!" Turning abruptly to the guard, he ordered, "Now. Take us to the records room; I need details on all of the events held in this room in the past eight weeks, and the attendees thereof..."

 

\-----

 

I returned to the flat late that afternoon to find Greg standing at the cooktop, fixing cheese sandwiches. He turned as I entered the kitchen, grinning. "Sherlock texted me you were on your way back; I thought it likely he didn't stop to let you eat lunch, yeh?"

"You're right on the money there. I grabbed a packet of pretzels at the hospital but that was it," I answered, stealing a kiss.

"He dragged you out there, too?"

"Yep, and a few other destinations besides! He was practically running place to place once he found the rest of the covert electronics, there was no real opportunity to break away. At least he paid all the cab fare." I took a grateful bite of the sandwich Greg passed me, not even bothering to leave the kitchen with my plate.

"Well then, we _know_ he really likes you!"

I laughed. "He just doesn't like to wrap up a case without someone around to tell him he's brilliant. I suspect he's been spoiled."

Greg plated his own sandwich and turned off the burner. "So it's all wrapped up then?"

"Pretty much, or at least Sherlock's part in it is. I have to say I wasn't quite following along near the end, he had to get Mycroft involved over the phone. Something about espionage, there was a diplomatic official whose phone was being tapped for data during the parties? I guess it traced back to some leaked information they'd been searching for a source on. Then he managed to figure out who was behind it all just by cornering the surgeon's wife on her way out of her office. She was being blackmailed into arranging her husband's malpractice, apparently. The spying stuff was all pretty well over my head, I was just there to take photos," I explained, shrugging and following Greg out to the table.

"So, am I going to have to be worrying about you running off with Sherlock every time I'm at work, now?"

"Hardly," I snorted. "Don't get me wrong, the idea of putting in applications for some boring office job when I get home isn't exactly thrilling me. But I don't see 'crime solver's handy embroideress assistant' as a viable career choice, do you?"

Greg quirked his lips into a crooked smile. "If there were any woman that could make that title work, it'd be you Anna." After a pause to polish off his sandwich, he continued, "So you're gonna have to go job hunting in a few weeks when you get back home?"

"I'm going to have to go everything hunting. Liz's offered me her apartment to crash at for a week or two, but I basically cut all ties to my life with David. I'll need to find a place to live, I don't even know if I want to stay in the same town. I've got savings and all, we weren't badly off—but my midlife crisis can't go on forever, right?"

"Yeah, well—" Greg's reply was cut off by the ring of my phone.

I stepped over and dug it out of my purse, frowning at the unrecognized US number on the screen. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Anna Clark?" The voice was a woman's, smooth and professional.

"Yes, who's this?"

"This is Natalie Jackson. You probably don't remember me, I grew up as Natalie Hardwick..."

"Andy's little sister, oh my gosh! Hi!" I shot Greg a befuddled look as I sat back down.

"That's me. Look, I'm sorry to track you down out of the blue like this. Mrs. Faber was very kind to give me your number."

"Then I'm sure Mom told you I only have this number while I'm out of the country." The reality of who I was talking with began to sink in, and I swallowed before speaking again. "Something's happened to Andy?"

There was a silence before Natalie continued. "I know the two of you hadn't spoken in years. But...well. Andy overdosed two weeks ago. They—weren't able to save him."

"Oh god. Oh. God. I'm so sorry, Natalie." Tears welled up in my eyes, and Greg reached across the table to take my free hand, concerned.

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you know sooner. As it happens, I've been handling Andy's legal matters since I started practicing. So it falls to me to tell you, you're listed in his will."

"What? I—really?"

"Yes, and there's the matter of some property he's left to you. Your presence will be required to take care of the details; how soon can you come to Chicago?"

"I—I suppose I can change my travel plans—"

"I'm so sorry to call you for this, Anna," Natalie sighed. "Look, he specified cremation and a scattering ceremony. We were going to hold it next Friday..."

"Um." I gathered myself with a shaky breath, then recited my email address. "...Send me the details, okay? I'll do my best to be there."

Natalie seemed to sense that I was about to lose my composure, and ended the call quickly and politely after that.

 

.

 

When I eventually came back to myself, Greg released me from the long hug he'd pulled me into, murmuring softly, "All right?"

Wiping at my eyes, I nodded. "I can't believe I have to go now. This cheats me out of three whole weeks here, Greg."

"You have to do right by your friend," he replied. "I understand. Here, let's see what your options are." He moved to the sofa and pulled out his laptop, patting the seat next to him.

My attention was only partly on the task at hand, as he searched the airline schedules and questioned me about my preferences. Instead of watching the computer screen, I drank in the details of Greg Lestrade's face—the plane of his forehead, the slight cleft of his chin, the adorable roundness of his nose and the little crease between his eyebrows—as if I needed to commit them to memory immediately or risk their disappearing forever. _I've already lost David, and now Andy, and now I have to lose Greg too,_ my inner voice whispered irrationally. Feeling the weight of my gaze on him, he turned and offered me a sad smile that faded quickly. Wordlessly, he leaned to set the computer down without breaking eye contact, and then he pulled me into a deep, slow and searching kiss, twining all of his fingers with all of mine.

 

\-----

 

"I'll follow you, Anna," he'd said. "I'm not letting you go." He'd whispered it like a prayer that night, and in the next six days and nights he repeated it a hundred times. He called off work and made arrangements for the whole week; he tried at first to fill our time with romantic activities, taking photos of ourselves walking arm-in-arm in the Kyoto Gardens and in Trafalgar Square. By the last three days, however, we simply found ourselves staying in, sitting or lying together, quietly trying to soak in as much of the other's presence and contact as we could. We talked until tea would no longer soothe our voices, sharing everything we could tell about our childhoods, our past loves, our fears—trying to think of everything we'd missed learning about each other, trying to fix our connection firmly in the fabric of our respective memories—and no matter how many times we said "I love you," it felt as if we'd run out of time.

 

.

 

On the morning of the seventh day, a horrible quiet settled over the flat. I found myself on the brink of tears at the slightest provocation—most notably when Greg brought me my last cup of tea and plate of toast. To cover it, we both laughed; his laugh sounded uncomfortably like a sob.

All too soon we found ourselves in the cab to the airport, clasping hands as if they were lifelines we could keep with us indefinitely. Greg escorted me to the entrance to the security area, clasping me in a tight hug, with a whispered promise to be available any time for my call.

"You don't mean that. You'll be on a case next time I call, most likely," I replied with a shaky smile.

"No, really. If I'm on, I don't care what Sherlock says, the dead body can bloody wait 'til after I at least give you my love." When I burst into a laugh at that, he reached up and stroked my cheek with his thumb. "That's more like it, sweet. Chin up. Won't be long, I'll be seeing you again."

"Promise?"

"With all my heart, Anna." We shared one last tender kiss, and rested our foreheads together for a final silent moment before I turned and passed through to the line.

 

.

 

Now, from my seat somewhere over the Atlantic, it all seems like a dream. Nine short weeks ago, all I wanted in life was to be far away from everything I'd known, stitching up my sadness with needle and thread. Now I'm returning from a trip in which I finally learned to reconcile the loss of my husband; I'm on my way to say goodbye to my oldest friend; and I'm trying to make room in my heart for hope. I've been in the air over five hours, following the sunlight across the sky; the surreal landscape of the clouds mirrors my mood. The only thing reminding me what's real right now is the little leather journal I'm writing my story in, and the Metropolitan Police business card tucked in between these pages.

**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade**  
**Metropolitan Police**  
**New Scotland Yard**

_Hope._

 

-x- _fin_ -x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a short story that fits into the timeline about halfway between this and the second Needles and Pins story:  
> [Against Policy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1165552)

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to mrv3000, without whom I never, ever, ever would have been capable of bringing this to completion. You are the absolute best! :D


End file.
